Erebor, 3022: Swordbrothers, A Courtship Year Story 5
by summerald
Summary: Post-LOTR!AU: King Fili sends his brother on a mission to deliver much needed gold into the hands of envoys from war-ravaged Rohan. But while Kili is away from the lands of Erebor, vengeful enemies strike at the very heart of Erebor's King and Fili makes a sacrifice. Is there anyone who can save Fili before it's too late? Mild Fili!whump, hurt/comfort. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

****Welcome to story number five in my post-LOTR AU! These tales follow the course of a single year from one Durin's Day to the next. In a nutshell, King Fili rules in Erebor, his young son Fjalar is prince-in-training, and Prince Kili has just wed his intended, the Lady Nÿr, a healer's apprentice, mid-way through their courtship year.**

**While this work can stand alone, reading the prequels will probably help at this point! All feedback welcome, even if you're coming late to the story. A quick review or a PM will do! Mahal's blessing...and enjoy! -Summer****

* * *

Chapter One

Kili, Son of Durin and Prince of Erebor, was spending his first night away from the Mountain in eighty-one years.

And he couldn't sleep.

It had been uneventful so far, but he seemed to wake every hour, his ears alert to every night creature and rustle of dry leaves in the wind. They were camped in safe territory, he told himself. South of the Long Lake on the edge of the Greenwood on a road well-secured by riders of Dale.

But knowing that didn't help.

He finally rose, tucked the blanket around his Lady Wife's shoulders, and left their tent.

"I'll take the watch," he murmured to Vit, one of the seven guards who'd come along. Vit tipped him an informal salute and nodded.

"Nothing to report," Vit said in a low voice. "Pair of skunks went that way," he pointed. "A few owls out."

"Thanks." Kili settled down with his pipe as Vit stepped away quietly and retired to his bedroll on the other side of the fire pit.

The autumn stars were bright overhead, the moon low in the west and sunrise was maybe an hour off.

Kili listened, sat, and tried to calm his nerves. In all his 150-odd years, he'd never actually travelled south of Esgaroth. A morgul curse from an orc arrow and the lingering spirit of a slain dragon had changed his life...making him safe only when protected by the ancient magic of the mountain.

Everywhere he looked, things were different and the land was unfamiliar.

Of course it was. He'd spent half his life unable to leave the lands of Erebor. But the dragon curse that had kept him there was broken and the threat of being taken by wraiths was gone.

Proven again tonight, in fact. He was miles from any land with Erebor stone beneath, yet there were no dwimmerwraiths in the night. No dragon voice in his head.

No more reasons for Kili, Son of Durin and Prince of Erebor, to fear the outside world and the things dark forces could do to the people of Erebor through him.

Yet eighty-one years of torment left a well of fear deep in his gut that wasn't going to dry up anytime soon. It made him uneasy, even for a short trip.

Which this was. A ten-day jaunt to escort sixty sacks of much-needed gold to a rendezvous point. They would meet up with envoys from Rohan at the headwaters of the Anduin, on the other side of the Greenwood forest, hand over the cargo, and then ride for home.

Nothing to it.

And everything. He was miserable and even the pipeweed tasted off. He finished his smoke and tapped out the bowl.

Just before dawn he stood and busied himself with ravenspeaking. A small group of Erebor's birds had followed them, roosting in the trees overhead, and Kili put them to work as soon as the light graced the eastern sky and woke them.

They came and went, reporting nothing of concern for miles around. They were all back by the time he felt the comforting arms of his new wife wrap around him from behind.

"Did you even sleep?" Nÿr asked, kissing his ear.

"Not much," he admitted. He rested his hand on her arm.

He took is as a sign of how well she knew him by now that she didn't offer bedtime tea or some other strong powder from her healer supplies. Those things might help him sleep, but they would make him slow to fight.

Instead, she busied herself brewing strong bark tea, the kind known for spurring everyone awake.

Once the ravens were back, they quorked loudly for treats.

It cost him half a bag of mixed nuts, and still Corax fussed at him from an overhead branch.

"Go find your own food," Kili told him. "Have you forgotten how to hunt?"

What Corax hadn't forgotten was how to stake-out a campfire and scavenge breakfast.

* * *

Fili, King of Erebor, spent his early morning with a padded practice sword in his hands, sparring in the cadet hall. His eldest son Fjalar was among the first-year cadets and Fili had brought along his second son, Gunz, just to watch.

While Gunz was technically older than Kili had been when he'd started sword training, everyone agreed today that this was too young for the cadet dorms. But there was no reason Gunz couldn't get an introduction to arms by watching sparring practices, and he was already learning the basics of handling a practice blade. And all four of Fili's kids, his little daughter included, were pretty well versed at falling, rolling, kicking, and basic self-defense.

For Fili, early morning workouts in the sparring arena were one part necessary practice (one did not retain a swordmaster's skill without constant work) and one part necessary demonstration. One's cadets did not aspire to excellence without example.

Besides, Fili had learned swordwork at the hands of Thorin Oakenshield, a warrior who believed that no soldiers followed a king who couldn't fight alongside them and fight well.

So Fili stood in the practice arena, facing a fifth level cadet squarely, testing the lad as requested by Dwalin, the current Armsmaster.

The lad had confidence.

They bowed, took opening stances, and the sparring began.

Fili let the lad strike first, sidestepping the blow. He let the lad circle and strike again, deflecting it.

They circled. The lad lashed with a feint and Fili took one step back, ready for the blade as it came around, again deflecting it.

The lad's expression showed frustration. Fili could see that the lad was slow.

Fili attacked like lightning—his battle experience quickly evident to everyone else in the room.

Faster than they could track, he lunged, tapped his opponents thigh, then his forearm, then spun away efficiently as if to face an invisible new opponent, leaving the lad on his backside.

"Heyah!" Dwalin called, at which Fili lowered his sword and stood down. "That speed," Dwalin said to the cadets, "is what makes or breaks you in battle. You're not trying to make an impressive kill…you simply want to disable your opponent as quick as you can and get on to the next one."

Dwalin motioned four more fifth-level cadets onto the floor.

Fili raised his practice sword and let them come. After more than two dozen lightning fast rounds with the cadets left "wounded," a squad of guard regulars arrived.

"Stand down, lads," Dwalin called to the cadets, and they bowed to their masters. Fili touched hands with each of them, thanking them before they walked to the sidelines.

He left his practice sword with Gunz and strapped on his battle sheath with the real twin blades stowed inside.

Gunz could barely lift his father's practice sword, but he did, adopting ready pose. A few cadets laughed indulgently at the sight of the small lad so eager to try his hand. A raised eyebrow from his father had Gunz lowering the blade and standing at ease.

That, Fili reflected, would last about a minute.

"Get your short sword," Fili instructed him, "and work on the pell."

Gunz left his father's padded blade on the rack and took his own, facing a nearby vertical post with practice padding attached.

"Good lad," Fili said. "You can do what I do, as long as you only hit the pell. Got it?"

Gunz gripped his practice sword and nodded.

Fili left him there under the eye of a seventh-level cadet and re-entered the arena to face the squad of regulars.

"You may watch," Dwalin told the younger cadets, "but none of you are ready to try this exercise. Am I understood?"

The cadets bowed heads in acknowledgement, and as one turned eager eyes to the real treat—master level swordplay with live blades. Master warriors knew how to do this, though it was still dangerous…and that's what made it exciting to watch. There would most certainly be some real blood, even if accidental.

The squad of nine were fast—unsheathing and surrounding the King in moments.

Fili's twin blades rang as they whipped into his hands, and he made quick work though the guards, though just like real combatants, they didn't stay down when they were hit. As the heat turned up, Fili evaded, spun, slashed, and struck until he visibly sweated.

But he was smiling.

At ten minutes, Dwalin called, "Heyah!" and the skirmish in the arena halted.

On the sidelines, Gunz's battle with the pell continued.

Fili wiped his forehead with his arm and grinned. He'd taken one swipe on his shoulder, but had otherwise come out unscathed.

"Leave off, lad," Fili told Gunz, laughing. "When the Armsmaster calls _heyah_, you're supposed to stop, step back, and bow. Remember?"

Gunz made an _I forgot_ face and stepped back. He looked at his Da, his eyes alight with the thrill, and then bowed.

"Thank you, my young lord," Fili bowed in return.

* * *

An hour later, Kili's caravan had their camp gear stowed, ponies laden and saddled, and the seven guards and two royal charges were ready to go.

Corax bobbed his head from a fence post and Kili tossed him one last walnut. "That's it. My pocket's empty." He patted the flat spot on his coat and held up an empty hand as proof.

Skirfir, young archer and close friend, laughed. "I never realized what beggars they are," he said.

Kili made a _don't get me started_ face.

"Vir says we'll be at the Old Forest Road by nightfall," he said, handing Kili a freshly filled waterskin before moving on to his own pony.

"Thanks," Kili said, nodding and hooking the skin to his saddlehorn. Then he walked around his pony to Nÿr's, ready to help her mount up.

She met him with a kiss. "I'm not going to break, sweetheart," she said, swinging herself into the saddle without help, flipping her single long black braid over her shoulder to keep it out of her way.

Kili shrugged, grinning. "I still got a kiss for my trouble," he teased.

She smiled at him, settling the reins.

Kili checked the line of ponies, reassuring himself that his crew knew their jobs, that everything was packed and in order, and then he got himself into his own saddle.

"Let's go!" he called. And the little company turned their noses south again for another full day's ride.

Skirfir, rode up beside him as they passed through a wide meadow.

"So, tell me why we're escorting this," Skirfir said quietly, tilting his head toward the pack animals, laden with sacks of gold disguised as mixed trade goods. "In plain clothes like we're common merchants?"

"This is more a family matter than one of state," Kili told him. "At least on the surface. Officially, the Sons of Durin are purchasing settlement rights from Rohan so our cousin Gimli can establish himself in a place called the Glittering Caves down at Helm's Deep. It's only fair to offer compensation since its Rohan's land, not Erebor's."

"But I thought the point," Skirfir had said. "Was to give them aid to get them back on their feet."

"Yes," Kili answered. "Rohan's in a bad way. They lost many people and most of their cropland in the war. They'll need to buy much of their food for the winter. Hard to admit that kind of need without losing face, sometimes." He glanced at Skirfir. The lad had fought outside Erebor's gate in the last battle. He'd known how desperate Erebor had been not so long ago. "So making this a private agreement instead of calling it charity is more diplomatic. That's Fili's thinking on the matter, anyway."

"Ah," Skirfir said. "And that's why you're the envoy. Family business."

"I'm the envoy because my brother's kicking my backside out into the fresh air," he smiled.

Skirfir laughed. "He specifically told me to look after both of you," he said, embarrassed. "If anything happens, I'm clearly spending the next fifty years laboring in the lowest mine."

Kili laughed. "I don't know about looking after me, but an extra pair of eyes on Nÿr wouldn't be bad. She's an _amadâl_ lass now."

Skirfir looked shocked. "And she's out? Riding _ponies_?"

"Calm down, lad," Kili grinned. "You've probably ridden out with _amadâl _lasses a hundred times. You just can't tell. There's no reason for them to be shut up at home."

Skirfir still looked concerned. The word _amadâl_ meant _nourisher_, and it referred to the very early stage of pregnancy when there were no outward signs, yet the new mother already nourished the new lad or lass within. Dwarf lasses had long pregnancies, and the _amadâl_ phase would last eight or nine months. Only then would her pregnancy start to show.

"Every midwife and healer says the same thing," Kili told him. "_Amadâl_ lasses can do whatever they feel like they can do. A wise lad does not mess with his Lady Wife's instincts on the matter." He raised an eyebrow at his younger friend, suggesting that any lad foolish enough to try it would pay a price.

The road widened and Nÿr rode up next to Skirfir, having sensed the conversation.

"Besides," she teased Skirfir, smiling. "If we travel to the Blue Mountains next year, I'll be much further along. This little lad needs to get used to riding."

Skirfir's eyes bugged. "Lad? How do…I mean, congratulations," he gave Nÿr a head bow from the saddle, hand over heart. "But how do you know it's a lad?"

Nÿr explained that everyone called an unborn dwarfling a lad…with dwarves, seven of ten births were boys, so it was generally assumed that unborn babies were male.

"Of course, if Mahal surprises us with a lass instead," Kili added. "We'll be incredibly honored." But Kili knew the odds.

"There's a nice spring about halfway to the gate at the Old Forest Road," Nÿr said, changing the subject. She lifted her arm to call a raven. "We should reach it about mid-day, and I seem to remember sunberry bushes." One of the younger hens flapped over to the offered perch and Nÿr murmured to her, making a suggestion. The young raven's eyes lit up and she took off, flying ahead of them. Two of the others took off after her, including Corax.

"Good thinking," Kili said. "They'll scout the trail again just to get first chance at berries."

"How do you know about the spring? You've been here before?" Skirfir asked.

"Twice," Nÿr nodded. "Once before the war," she shuddered a bit at that, "when I rode to the Blue Mountains on exchange." She'd spent five years of her healer training there. "And then just about this time last year when I came back." She smiled at him.

Kili grinned. "Just before you broke your leg and gave me," he winked, "a chance to get stranded in a snowstorm with the intriguing young healer lass from Ered Luin."

The rest was history, Kili figured.

But an hour later the ravens were back, crying in alarm.

The ponies halted and Kili held up his arm as Corax practically pounced on him.

"Strangers! Strangers in the woods!"

* * *

**Age references:** Dwarves have a much longer life span than humans. I'm not entirely sure how quickly young dwarves mature, but if you'd like a reference for Fili's children: Fjalar is the equivalent of about a 15 year old human. Gunz (or Gunnar) is equal to a 9-10 year old. Fili has two younger children: Hannar, equal to a 6 year old and Iri, the only lass, equal to a 4-5 year old. They would have been born in the past 20-40 years, before the War of the Ring.

**Note on names**: I source most dwarf names from the Old Norse poetic Edda, the same source JRRT used. Fanfiction blocks URLs in the text, but if you google "The Poetic Edda: Pronouncing Index Of Proper Names" you'll find a handy list.

**Please don't forget to drop me a note and let me know what you think! ** All feedback appreciated. Happy reading!


	2. Chapter 2

****So, so thrilled to see so many of you following the new story! (Summer waves Hi!) So grateful for your support. (Bows to you, hand on heart.) Enjoy!****

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Chapter Two

When the small flock of Erebor ravens sounded an alarm about strangers on the road, Kili and his band of travelers went into action. At a hand signal from Skirfir, three of the guards led the string of pack animals into the brush on the east side of the trail, getting their cargo out of sight.

Skirfir, the Hill brothers Vir and Vit, and an axe-hand named Hôvarth took defensive positions around their prince and princess, while Kili and Nÿr eased forward. Everyone listened for sounds ahead.

Kili raised his arm and Corax swooped in.

"Good bird, best bird," Kili murmured, calming the raven. Corax flapped, then settled, head cocked to listen to his friend. "Show me where they are," Kili murmured. "Tell me how many."

"Two," Corax muttered. "Two, two, two. Blood. Much blood."

Kili saw his beloved's face turn towards them. "Wounded?" she asked quietly, understanding what Corax said. They were the only ravenspeakers in the group. Nÿr was, in fact, Kili's very distant cousin through a common great-great-great grandfather.

"Are they men?" Kili asked.

Corax rubbed his beak on Kili's gauntlet. "Elf. Elf and elf."

"Two wounded elves?" Kili asked.

Nÿr gathered her reins. "They need help," she murmured. She was a trained healer after all.

"No," Kili warned. "We don't know who wounded them. Might still be there."

She stayed put, her expression worried.

Kili sent Corax off to show them where the wounded elves lay. Then he called in two other ravens and asked for signs of others in the woods. "Men, orcs, goblins, dwarves, elves, spiders," he said. "Many-legs," he added, using the word most ravens called spiders. The two ravens took off, flying over the trees.

The dwarves followed Corax cautiously, staying on their ponies but spreading out a bit so they could turn and flee quickly if needed.

The other ravens flew back. Elves, they reported. Elves in the woods…no one else.

Kili motioned for Skirfir to join him and they armed their bows, riding forward. Corax stood on a tree branch over a patch of tall grass on the east side of the road, quorking and bobbing.

If he was right, there were two wounded elves in the grass below him.

Skirfir met Kili's eyes and he made a hand motion meaning I'll go, you stay.

Kili would prefer to go himself, but he understood that it was Skirfir's job. He nodded, accepting the lad's willingness to go.

Skirfir slid from his saddle and both of them listened. Kili looked at Corax. The bird also cocked his head. Skirfir, bow in hand, re-nocked his arrow and drew it tight.

Skirfir eased forward, arrow pointed into the grass, craning his head around to see what was there, Vit came up, right behind him, hill mace in his hand. After a moment Vit held up two fingers and then made a hand sign that meant _elf_.

Kili stowed his bow and dismounted, purposefully making some noise. He drew his sword, holding it in ready position, low and across his body. "Hello, friends," he called out in elvish. "Do you need help? We are travelers and mean no harm."

No response. Kili stepped carefully forward.

Nÿr and the others, drawn to his voice, rode forward, expressions concerned.

Kili finally spotted them, two ash-haired elves dressed in tattered, unadorned tunics and leggings, laying curled against each other. One had a deep gash in his arm, his shirt wet with blood.

And one was clearly dead.

"One dead," Corax announced. "One bloody."

Kili head Nÿr gasp and slide off her pony. "He's wounded!" she said.

"Nÿr!" Kili put an arm out to stop her. "He could still be dangerous."

They watched Skirfir edge forward, and then the wounded elf moved.

Skirfir froze, arrow pulled taught.

But the elf was no threat. He seemed to shrink in on himself and he ducked his head as if shy.

"_Leithio ven…hîdh nen gurth_…"

Kili's brain blanked. Had he heard that right? His elvish wasn't great, but he thought he heard _give us peace in death._

He would do no such thing. Instead, he nodded to Skirfir to lower his bow and he dropped his arm to let Nÿr pass.

She rushed forward, kneeling beside the elf to look at his wound.

To Kili's surprise, he saw that the elf's face was painted with black markings, some kind of design along his right brow and cheek, revealed as the poor fellow turned to look at Nÿr, genuine trepidation in his eyes.

"_Davo eithad anech_," he said gently to the elf. "Let us aid you."

The elf looked at Nÿr's satchel of supplies and seemed to recognize her healer status. He held himself still, casting his eyes down.

And then Corax erupted with cries of alarm—launching himself across the road to the forest as if attacking. "Elves! Elves!" he cried.

The dwarves turned, weapons once again at the ready.

And moments later, three elves of the woodland realm, bows drawn, stood on the opposite side of the road.

It was a faceoff, Kili realized. Dwarves and elves, the injured elf and the healer Nÿr huddled in the grass behind him. Kili stood with his sword in both hands, glowering at the newcomers, Vir at his side, hill mace at the ready.

A tall, fire-haired elf pointed a sharp arrow straight at Kili. "Stand down, dwarf," he spat. "This is none of your concern. Do not defend the slave."

"I am defending," Kili growled, "My Lady Wife. Explain yourself."

"These are not your lands," the elf said, as imperious as Thranduil. "You cannot interfere."

"These are not _your_ lands, either," Kili said. "The King Elessar claims rule over the open roads. Thranduil signed the same treaty as everyone else." Erebor, Dale, Esgaroth, Woodland Realm...they'd all signed.

They stared at each other, the tension sharp. At least the fire-haired elf didn't speak against the treaty.

Kili lowered his voice. "The law of Gondor prevails on this road…and does not Gondor prohibit slavery and the harming of free peoples?" He knew Thranduil kept slaves. It was a very old custom. He also knew most younger elves of his realm abhorred the practice.

"Tell me, dwarf. Is Gondor here to prevent it?" The elf was sneering, almost laughing.

Kili narrowed his eyes. "Erebor will prevent it."

"Are you so wealthy a merchant that Erebor will care?"

"I am Kili, son of Durin, Brother to the King."

Two of the elven archers lowered their bows and stood back, glancing at each other in alarm.

The fire-haired archer did not. He remained poised to shoot Erebor's prince through the heart.

"Any one of these ravens," Kili murmured, "Can take a message to my cousin in Aragorn's company faster than you can reach Thranduil yourself."

Kili thought the fire-haired elf blink. His claim was far-fetched, but the elf couldn't know that.

And then the snap of twigs and new elves broke upon them. Everyone—dwarves and elf—pointed their weapons at the newcomers on the road to the south.

A tall dark-haired elf archer pointed her arrow directly at the fire-haired elf.

"Leave be, Lhainon. This elf is outside the reach of your law."

The fire-haired elf, Lhainon, lowered his bow and backed up a step.

Kili and his dwarves watched, wary.

"Are you building a new kingdom Tuilind?" Lhainon asked, his voice sneering. "Outcasts and criminals?"

"If I must." Her expression remained firm with the fire-haired elf clearly in her sights.

Lhainon huffed, then looked down his nose at Kili. "You are headed for the old forest road?"

"Yes."

The elf's nose twitched as if he smelled something rank. "Take care that you remain upon it," Lhainon said, turning away. "If you stray into our realm, I shall reacquaint you with our Lord's dungeons and forget to tell him you are there."

Kili watched him go, his best Durin glower on face. _Exactly the way you kept my grandfather captive?  
_

On the other side of the clearing the elf named Tuilind lowered her bow.

Kili relaxed his sword, though he did not re-sheath it. His guards lowered weapons as well. In the grass between them, Nÿr had made quick work of binding the wounded elf's arm.

Tuilind considered Kili. "You're that dwarf prince who freed Tauriel from the dragon," she said.

"You know about that?"

She nodded.

He nodded toward the slave elf that Nÿr bandaged. "You know this elf?"

She nodded again. "Yanu. _De tab-melin_."

Nÿr looked at Kili, not understanding. Her eyes were wide in concern.

"His name is Yanu," Kili translated. "And he's her..." He frowned, struggling with the word she'd used. He'd heard it before, long ago. _Tab-melin_. "Forbidden lover."

* * *

Fili had finished his workout for the morning and was taking his young son back to the family quarters before cleaning up and reporting to his study. He had a stack of documents and missives to go through after yesterday's open court, and he had learned long ago not to let that work pile up. Clear it out right away, old Balin had taught him, and you'll sleep better.

Balin had been right.

"Are we going to Dale for the fair?" Gunz asked, tugging on Fili's sleeve as they crossed one of the open bridge across Erebor's inner hub.

"Later today, yes," Fili answered, smiling at his young son.

"Yippee!" Gunz darted forward with a skip.

"No railings, Gunnar," Fili said, cautioning the lad. He was past the stage of grabbing Gunz every time danger presented itself, trying instead to get the lad to start recognizing danger for himself. Most dwarves had an innate sense of stone beneath their feet and Gunz was no exception, but Fili still wanted to see more awareness and less impulsiveness.

Gunz looked surprised, glanced at the edge of the walkway, then reached quickly for his father's hand.

"Can we get rock candies?"

"Have to ask your mother about that," Fili said. "But you know what you_ can_ get?"

"What?"

"A present for your cousin Beka. Her ravenspeaker confirmation is in three days."

"What do we give her?"

Fili shrugged. "Up to you. You'll have a whole fair of things to look at, though." He considered his lad. "You know Beka. What do you think would make her happy?" Gunz was also at that stage where youngsters started becoming more aware of others and less fixated on themselves. While his older brother would be King, Mahal willing, Prince Gunnar would certainly spend his life helping to look after Erebor's people. Empathy and thoughtfulness were qualities the lad would need as much as he needed fighting skill.

"Beka would like rock candies."

Fili laughed. "_You_ want rock candies, Gunz. Beka doesn't really eat sweets, now does she?"

Gunz grinned in embarrassment, acknowledging he'd been caught out.

"Try again, lad."

This time Gunz looked more thoughtful. "Something with a raven on it," he said. "Or knives. She likes knives she can hide in her coat."

Fili smiled. "Those are both good ideas. I think you're right." He patted his son on the back, proud of him. Those really were things more in line with the lass's personality and he was glad Gunz had the insight. They stepped off the bridge and headed for a corridor marked with the King's sigil, guarded by four stalwart Royal Guards. They did not make eye contact with their King, but they stood tall as he passed.

The corridor took them to a private stairway lit by the golden glow of oil lamps, and the stairs led direct to the royal family's rooms. Fili listened to his little son's chatter as they climbed, having no inkling at all that he was about to walk in on trouble of the most horrifying kind.

* * *

****Source for elvish: the website "Merin Essi ar Quenteli." As always, feel free to drop a note in the reviews or PM me! Mahal's blessings…**

**Art prompts for Tuilind and Yanu are on my Pinterest board...google Summer Alden Pinterest and look at the Durin's Day board. (Don't worry, Summer Alden is an alias...not my real name.)****


	3. Chapter 3

****Warning: this chapter rated M for Mature**…for violent fight sequence in the second scene. Additional note for new readers: the characters of Beka (Dwalin's young daughter) and Nama are introduced in some detail in the story Kinseekers…in case you are interested in more about their background. Special shout out to **BlueRiverSteel** for being the sharp-eyed beta for this chapter and for her moral support! Check out her AU! story as well!**

* * *

Chapter 3

Kili, Prince of Erebor, stood with his arms crossed, facing two unusual elves.

"If you're riding the Old Forest Road, let us travel together." Tuilind and Yanu sat on a log, eye level with Kili. Tuilind had one arm around her injured friend. "It would be safer for all of us," Tuilind said.

"No," Kili said. "Not until you tell me what this is really about. Who injured Yanu? Who," he waved a hand in the direction of the deceased elf. "Caused such a grievous thing?"

He watched Tuilind and Yanu look at each other and then look away.

"Why did Lhainon call you a slave?" Kili demanded. "I thought that practice was past acceptance in the Greenwood."

"Except as punishment for a crime," Yanu said. The lad was decidedly more humble than the average elf, almost shy. He avoided eye contact and deferred even to Kili, a behavior unusual in itself.

"We were responsible for the death of Lhainon's brother, many years ago," Yanu murmured. "Cúven was at fault—an accident. And I hid him when he came to me." Yanu closed his eyes, as if recalling time long past. "We were tattooed and sentenced to serve for three hundred years. We did that. But Lhainon has never forgiven us."

"To elves like Lhainon, Yanu is forever slave-caste," Tuilind said. "And forbidden company."

Kili frowned. And of course the facial tattoos ensured that the convicted was forever marked as such.

"Lhainon is a high elf," he observed. "You are wood elves." His own experience befriending Tauriel had been enough for him to understand that elf society was extremely complex. The Woodland Realm was, underneath all the beauty and the skill, a rigid and judgmental culture. Rather different, Kili knew, from Rivendell where Elrond Half-elven ruled.

Tuilind nodded. "We have formed a new colony. We are Woodland outcasts…we live apart from the old ways."

Mahal, that was brave, Kili thought. Had he and Tauriel really chosen each other all those years ago, this might have been them, he realized: outcasts living vulnerable in the wilds. And he could well imagine high elves taking exception. The Legolas he'd met in those days would have hated him, and Kili knew he would not have been safe if found alone in the woods.

Legolas today, he conceded, was a different person.

Tuilind tilted her head toward the forest. "This is our land now, south of the Mirkwood Mountains. We answer to Lorien and Celeborn. But he departed with the Lady of Lorien, a year ago... Some, like Lhainon, think this means they can encroach and harass us on sight just because we live differently."

"Lhainon killed your friend Cúven?" Kili asked.

"Cúven was grieving," Yanu murmured, rubbing his forehead and looking immensely sad. "He lost his beloved to an orc attack a few months back. He came here alone…I found him this morning."

"And the cut on your arm?"

"Just one of Lhainon's over-zealous friends." Yanu touched the bandage Nÿr had wrapped around the wound. "Thank you for your care," he murmured.

Kili considered all this. He had always heard that there were only two ways an elf could die. First, in battle-and he'd seen enough proof of that over the years. He supposed an accident counted in this category. Second, of a broken heart. Yet this was the first time he'd seen such a thing. He looked at the ponies, where his new lady wife re-packed her saddle bag.

This time last year they had not even met. But he knew now that if anything happened to her, he would be…he couldn't even imagine. The very thought unsettled him.

He asked questions about the orc attack. Tuilind and Yanu were quick to share what they knew. Stragglers remained around the old site of Dol Guldur, which was not surprising. Kili had no intention of traveling anywhere close to the old tower, far south of the rendezvous point where he would be meeting the men of Rohan.

"I would offer a pony, but I don't think you'd fit," he said finally to Yanu, referring to the mismatch between the size of their mountain ponies and the height of the elf. "But we are traveling at a slow pace." Skirfir appeared on the trail now, coming toward them with a dozen laden ponies following behind.

"See to your dead," Kili said to the two elves. "And if we are going in the same direction, I would not prevent you from traveling alongside. You are welcome to catch up to us."

With that, he nodded to the pair of elves and left them to their own business. He did not truly know what funeral rites would be held for an elf like Cúven, but he knew it was not the business of Erebor. They had offered aid to fellow travelers on the road, as was proper, and his questions about their trouble had more to do with assessing possible threats to his own band of pretend-merchants than any desire to help the elves further, though he wasn't unsympathetic. He just had no reason to do anything more for them.

"Ride on," he said to Skirfir as the string ponies passed. "I'll be right behind." This problem, he thought, had delayed them long enough.

* * *

Fili, King of Erebor, was looking at his young son Gunz when he opened the door at the top of the private stairs, and he saw the exact moment when Gunz's expression changed—eyes going wide in sudden fear.

Then he smelled blood. As he turned, a throwing knife was already in his hand, but the scene before him was unrecognizable.

His eyes spotted several things in rapid succession: overturned table, blood, dead Royal Guard, overturned chairs, and many large people inside. Too many.

_Men._

Straight ahead: a man with his hands on the Queen, holding her captive.

Fili threw the blade, hitting the man in the throat, and An pulled free. He had no time to wonder HOW this happened…he could only let his instincts react.

He got his swords in his hands as the men inside scrambled for defensive positions. One man scooped up Gunz and turned to flee. Fili struck fast with a slash across the man's back and Gunz fell to his hands and knees.

Three dead dwarves lie on the floor right in front of the lad…chamberlain, two guards. Gunz recoiled.

Fili slashed quickly at two men, turned, and faced a third who had a longsword pointed close enough to graze his neck. He let himself fall backward, curled left, and kicked the man's legs out from under him. He caught a glimpse of Gunz scurrying for cover next to an upturned chair and Fili saw a fourth man raising his sword overhead, taking aim at the child.

Fili surged up, stabbing his left sword into the man's heart, pulling it back, then scrambling to slice his right sword through a man in tanned leathers. The man with the longsword was back on his feet, and Nama, the Queen's bodyguard, intercepted him before he could aim at Gunz, using a backhand to slam her longknife into his kidneys. The man fell, but not before he sliced sideways through her midsection.

Fili knew it was a fatal wound, knew it as she went to her knees, but he had to turn and raise his left sword to deflect a blow from a hooded man, slicing his right sword through the man's inner thigh. The man went sideways, blood spraying everywhere.

"Hold it!" A bald man had grabbed hold of Gunz and clutched the lad like a shield, knife at the child's throat. Fili looked rapidly for a possible strike point: heart, gut, thigh, eyes…not finding a target to make a kill without striking his son.

"Stop!" the man met Fili's eyes. "Or the kid is dead."

Across the room a man in tattered leathers had recaptured An.

Fili could see now that her hands were tied cruelly in front of her, her head pulled back to bare her throat, knife at the ready.

"Or I can kill the Queen," the tattered man said. "Take your pick."

_Mahal, no. _The two were too far apart. Fili considered a double throw…but the men were wily, moving around, not steady targets.

He looked at his lady wife, but An kept her head turned away, not meeting his eyes. She was giving him permission to sacrifice her and save her child.

_No! _ Anger surged in Fili's blood. _ If anyone makes the sacrifice love, it will be me._

Nama, loyal to the end, lay in a pool of blood. To his left, a royal guardsman slumped against the wall, bloody, eyes glassy…dead.

Men with swords…nine, twelve, sixteen total?

A movement in the background. Beka, Dwalin's daughter…with Iri and Hannar, slinking behind overturned furniture.

_Yes. Good girl._

Could he and An distract the men and give them time to get away?

And then Gunz started kicking.

"No!" Fili said. "Gunz, no."

But the man reacted faster, striking the lad with a quick knife slash along his collarbone to his shoulder.

Gunz cried out, a yelp like a puppy; a streak of blood welled and dripped.

Fili had never felt this kind of fear in a battle. It jolted through him and he could feel his knees shake.

"Leave him be. He's just a child," he growled in a husky voice.

Across the room, An's eyes were wide with fear and she struggled. The tattered man jerked her roughly back.

The knife was back at Gunz's throat. The bald man sneered. "Durin child. Better off dead."

These were not Dale men. Not men of Gondor or Rohan. These were the kind of men they'd faced at the Gate in the Last Battle. Easterlings. Haradrim.

_Mahal._ This was a betrayal of the highest order. Fili could barely take it in.

He looked from the bald man with his son to the tattered man with his wife.

It was a standoff.

"Get out of my home," he snarled, swords at the ready.

"No," said a newcomer. "Having gained access, I find it hard to leave."

A scraggy, fur-clad dwarf strode in imperiously from the other rooms. Fili recognized him from the Iron Hills: a slimy fellow from among Stonehelm's advisors. Slaghead.

"Is this my cousin's work?" Fili demanded. "His way of getting Erebor?"

The scraggy dwarf stopped halfway between An and Gunz. "Your cousin is a tool…too weak to hold his own ground."

Fili set his jaw. "What do you want? Is it gold? Name your price, it's yours. I'll let you go."

"Not gold," the dwarf said. "Though I'll get enough of that to be going on, eventually." He smiled.

"Then what are you after?"

The dwarf took a step closer, then leaned in, leering at him. "You."

Fili heard nothing but his own pounding heart.

"All right," he said. "Let's go—just leave the lad with his mother." Mahal, he hoped Beka got the other two away. "Don't hurt them. They stay here, I go with you." Fili looked the other dwarf in the eyes.

The dwarf twitched his eyebrows. "Drop the swords."

Gunz kicked again, struggling, and the dwarf reached out lightning fast and smacked the lad hard with a slap to his ear. Gunz's head went to the side with the force of it, and Fili could see the lad's eyes squeezed tight with pain.

"All right!" Fili said, drawing the attention back to him. "I'm putting them down." He bent, setting the twin blades at his feet. "Don't hurt him."

"Hands up," the dwarf said.

Fili complied, hating that the look in Gunz's eyes was so despairing.

"It's all right lad," he said. He wanted to say more, wanted to tell him that there's more than one way to win a fight…but he couldn't.

It hurt.

He looked back at the dwarf. "Where do you want to go? The vaults? I'll go along. I can get you as much gold as you want." Fili understood the attraction of gold. Offer it again and sooner or later someone would say yes. "Enough for all of you." _Please, Mahal. Help me lure them away. _

Three men came forward and grabbed Fili's hands, cuffing them together. He glared, but he let them do it. _Just keep your attention on me._

Then there was noise at the outer doors. The Royal Guard had cadged on, Fili guessed.

"They're trying to enter and make a rescue," the dwarf said to his men. He motioned several of them to the foyer, then signaled the man holding An.

The tattered man raised his sword and whacked An on the head with the pommel.

Fili saw her crumple to the floor. "No!"

Gunz struggled again, kicking wildly and landed a good kick of his heel in the man's crotch. In anger, the man roared, flinging the lad at the wall.

Fili eyes went wide in horror as Gunz's small body hit the wall with a thud and he fell bonelessly to the floor in a still heap.

_Gunz! _ Fili's brain was frozen…they did that…_to a child! _ He surged forward at the men, his fury palpable as he tried to knock them into each other, pushing them back.

"Get him out of here, _now!_" The dwarf demanded. "You—to the doors. Trap the Guards in the foyer and we will slaughter them. Go!"

Fili found himself overcome by three men at the same time, punched in the gut, and hustled away. Somehow, they had opened the secret exit that led down to ground level—the one that came out in a hidden place in the rocks east of Ravenhill.

But only half of the sixteen men surrounded him. Eight of the others and the slimy dwarf ran to defend the front doors.

But that didn't keep him from being hustled through the door and down the dark, narrow corridor.

_An! Gunz…!_

He fought back now, using his elbows to ram groins and guts, throwing himself sideways, getting his feet on the wall and pushing back, slamming one man against the stone.

And that was the last thing Fili knew before he hit a wall of blackness.

* * *

Beka, daughter of Durin, had not grown up in a sheltered household, and if there was anything she knew how to do, it was how to evade dwarves like Hothbrodd. The Queen had told her to hide, and Beka had grabbed her little cousins and ducked. She'd wanted to take them and bolt for the nursery—easily the safest place in the mountain.

But these people had known about that and barred the entry with an overturned cabinet.

At least her little cousins were frightened beyond their usual fussing. Hannar did exactly what she told him. Iri clung to her, trembling, eyes wide. The three of them huddled together behind an overturned table, hoping they were unnoticed and forgotten.

They'd seen it. Seen the men attack…bursting into the front room with swords drawn, killing the household guards, grabbing their mother and exposing her throat…seen their father killing men, seen the blood spraying, family's quarters turning into a slaughterhouse. And they saw Nama fall, her guts spilling.

_All because they want the King…_

And then Beka had recognized Hothbrodd.

She knew she had to warn her father…warn her cousin Fjalar before they were all trapped.

She tried to calm her breathing. She might not be able to get to the nursery, but Beka knew secrets about the royal apartments that their attackers didn't know. There was another secret exit she could use.

Pounding on the outer doors made her jump and look up. Guards at the front door. Hothbrodd's men ran to stage an ambush.

This was her chance. She used the cover to slip her two cousins down the short hallway into the Annex, thankfully deserted since her cousin Kili was away. She hurried the children to the little study that Princess Nÿr used.

Beka knew the secret of this room. Her father and Nÿr had shown her, her father proud of his brother, her long-dead Uncle Balin who had renovated the rooms on this side of the family apartments.

She got Hannar and Iri inside, pointing them to an oversized chair in one corner.

"Quick," she whispered. "Hide behind it!"

Together they huddled. Hannar looked at her with determination in his eyes. "Keep her quiet," Beka said. "I'm going to lock you in. Stay behind the chair. I'm going back for Gunz," she told them, holding up a finger.

Hannar and Iri stared at her, looking like frightened chicks in a hidden nest.

Beka turned and ducked out of the study, using all her weight to move the sliding wall that sealed the secret room.

Thank Mahal for her Uncle Balin's demanding standards. The wall slid silently and latched shut with a barely audible click.

Beka ducked behind a door, listening. She could hear the clanking of swords and gear in the foyer and shouts through the doors.

But in the front room beyond, nothing. She crouched low, stayed in the shadows, and made it back to the hiding place behind the overturned table in the front room.

There were only three people there now—the men had all moved to defend the foyer.

Hugging the floor, Beka peered around the table, seeing everything from a mouse's perspective.

Lady An lay on her side, eyes closed. Blood dripped across her forehead.

_But she breathes_, Beka thought, seeing the Queen's chest rise and fall.

And Nama. _Nama!_ Nama who'd helped her leave the Iron Hills. Like a big sister…like a kind auntie. _Like the mother I never knew?_

Nama lay panting, most of her guts on the floor around her.

_It's bad_, Beka realized, feeling like someone had dumped ice on her.

Beka bit her lip, then realized Nama's eyes met her own. The older lass's lips moved, as if she had something to say.

"Beka…"

Craning her head to check for men, Beka crawled forward. She made it to Nama's side, noticing Gunz now, crumpled at the base of a wall.

_Gunz!_ Was he…dead?

"Beka…" She could hear Nama's whisper.

"I hid the children, Nama. I came back for Gunz," she whispered back.

Nama's eyes closed. "Brave lass," she whispered. "Good lass."

"I'll take them to my father," Beka said, as quiet as she could.

"No," Nama whispered, her eyes popping open. "Not Dwalin. They will take him, like the king. Hide the children," she gasped. "Go to the mines, lass. Hide them with the mining families. Find Bofur. Tell him…Haradrim. They want Aragorn. Erebor…is the hostage."

"I saw Hothbrodd."

"Yes. They already control…Stonehelm." Her eyes closed. Beka grabbed Nama's arm, wondering if she could carry the older lass. "Leave me child. I am nearly gone."

Beka stared in silence. _No._

"Take Gunz. Do not come back. Go to Bofur. Then ravenspeak…send the ravens for Kili. Do not…" Nama gasped in pain and her face clenched. She held her breath. "Don't use Ravenhill. Go…" She caught her breath again. "to the top of the stairs. Climb the mountain. Stay there. Hide yourself. Tell the ravens: find your Da…and tell Kili…they took the king."

_No…!_

"Tell him Fili sacrificed…" She coughed a little. Bright red blood stained her lips. "To save his children."

Beka wanted to ask more…was the king alive? But Nama's expression, so tight with pain, suddenly went still, then slowly relaxed.

She grabbed Nama's hand and shook it, trying to get her attention. "Nama!" She whispered.

But the older lass was still.

_No. _

Beka swallowed, staring. Was this death? Was this what death looked like? Everything was blurry, and she couldn't think. She almost sobbed aloud but bit her lip, hard.

In the foyer, she heard shouts, the clink of weapons.

They were going to kill Erebor dwarves in there. Her heart raced like she was running uphill, and she seemed to hear Nama's voice in her head.

_Go, lass! _

Her king…the one who had defended her against Hjarni, the one who had brought her here, supported her right to train with weapons… If he had let himself be taken to save his children, then that was her job, too. To see it done.

_I will do it, cousin. For you…_

She blinked away tears, tried to still her quivering chin. She glanced around to see if anyone was there, then scooted to her little cousin.

Gunz.

There was no time to be careful. She rolled him onto her back, lifting him off the floor, and then staying crouched over, she carried him quickly to the hall, then to the Annex, stopping to be sure no one marked their passage. She wanted to turn and say goodbye to Nama, to hope that the Queen would be all right. But there was no time. She was pushing it as it was…she could be discovered and caught at any moment.

At the sliding wall, she had to put Gunz down in order to reach the pine cone tile.

Looking over her shoulder, she pressed the tile and felt the wall move with a thump.

Eyes wide, she glanced around. Had anyone heard?

But the shouts and fighting covered the sound. Quickly, she slid the door just enough to pull Gunz inside, then quickly slid it closed behind them, hearing the lock click into place.

And then she collapsed next to her young, unconscious cousin—her eyes full hot wild tears, as if suddenly reacting to the horror in the rooms beyond.

Vaguely, she became aware of Iri touching her arm. "Beka? Where's Mum?"

Beka wiped her eyes, then reached for her little cousin. Daughter of Durin. "We are alone, Iri. We have to go to the miners. To Bofur."

How much time did they have?

Wildly, she tried to work out the logistics of getting two very young dwarves and one completely limp lad all the way to the mines…

She couldn't.

She could go alone, bring someone back, but Iri was a fussy one. If she left Iri here, she'd make noise, attract attention.

Beka looked at Hannar. Hannar would go to sleep if she encouraged it.

"Iri, you and I have to go for help. But we have to sort of play dress-up." She looked at her little cousin, dressed too neat and new for mining child. "Let's leave your pinafore here." Quickly, she untied the little bow on the back. Iri's under-dress was more plain. Better. But the lass still looked too clean.

The fireplace. Not a lot of ash, but enough for Beka's purpose. "Here," she said. "I used to do this in the Hills, to help hide myself." And Beka thrust her hand into the ash and started transforming Iri, Princess of Erebor into Ri, waif of the lower mines.

And a good portion of that ash went to darkening Iri's long golden curls.

* * *

**So now the rest of the story will unfold...! Let me know your thoughts-either review or PM me...even if you're reading this weeks after originally posted. I do hope you aren't feeling too traumatized. Mahal have mercy...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Beka, daughter of Lord Dwalin of Erebor, used every bit of skill she had at blending in and staying in the background as she led her small cousin out of hiding, hoping desperately that they would not attract the wrong attention.

The secret passage to Nÿr's Study came out in the Halls of Learning next to a statue of Joadmun the Apothecary. They managed to join a crowd of students going between classes, then veer off to a parapet overlooking the central hub and leading to the staircases.

Even so, Beka immediately recognized that something was going on in the central hub. Three dwarves in plain black stood in the center of the bridge one level below, waving hands in a "no access" gesture and turning perplexed folk back the way they'd came. There were guards in ill-fitting uniforms on the stairways, blocking people from going up or down.

And to get to the mines, they needed to use the stairs leading down.

She pulled Iri into a doorway, stopping to re-think this. She needed help…but maybe not adult help. Beka had an innate sense of distrust when it came to most adults anyway.

She looked back at the Halls of Learning. All of the trainees took classes here. Beka herself took classes three days a week. She'd been here for history, engineering, and Khuzdul lessons just the day before.

Glancing at Iri, she made a quick decision and turned her around, heading for the reading room, the big study hall that students used between classroom hours. She led Iri there now, evading a green robed professor, then slipping through a side entrance into the large hall, full of students in neat rows with books open and quills up.

She scanned the faces. A few wrinkled their brows at them, but silence was strictly enforced in the reading room, and no one spoke. She looked for someone—anyone—she knew.

Then spotted Mieth, in the center of one of the middle rows. Thank Mahal. One of her cousin's friends and a sturdy enough lad.

Beka sat in an empty chair on the aisle, pulling Iri close underneath the table, still clutching her hand. She nudged the student next to her, gesturing to borrow a quill and scrap of paper.

The student scowled but scooted the things over, and Beka made a _sorry, but I really need this_ look, and scrawled a quick note.

_Meet me outside now! Warhammersx10. Beka_

She waved it a moment to dry the ink, then noticed the hall monitor craning his neck to look for the source of possible disturbance.

Beka bent down as if checking her boot and folded the note, handing it to Iri. "Mieth is halfway down this row," she whispered. "Quiet as a mouse, Iri. Give this to him and come right back."

Iri nodded, took the note, and small as she was, slipped quickly behind the seated students and made it to Mieth, a lad she knew since he'd visited the family with her brother several times.

Beka watched, hoping to catch Mieth's eye when he saw Iri and the note.

She saw him sit up and look down, and presumed Iri had made it. Then she saw him unfolding the note.

A moment later he looked right at her. His eyes were wide, but they were steel. Beka jerked her head to the exit and quietly rose and took herself out.

Moments later, Mieth was there, Iri at his heels.

"Beka?" he hissed. "What in _aznân_…?"

"Where's Fjalar?"

"In law class…"

"We have to get him. Now." She backed her words with her best Durin family glower.

"Beka," Mieth started, as if he would dismiss her.

"No. Listen. There's been an attack," she whispered the last word, biting back tears. "On the _King_."

Next to her, Iri nodded, her eyes round. "They killed Mum's guard…" she whispered.

Mieth looked shocked. That was not something a child Iri's age would just make up.

"More than one," Beka whispered. "Gunz is hurt. He needs healer help. Mieth," she elbowed him. "We have to get Fjalar before they do." She glared at him as if that alone would be enough to spur him into action.

At the end of the hall, two professors were conferring with a newcomer.

Beka pulled Iri into the shadow. "Get him out of class," she whispered. "Any excuse you can find…bring him to…" she shook her head, not knowing the Halls of Learning well enough to name a good hiding place.

"To the archive. Last door on the left," Mieth spun her so she would see it. "It's always unlocked. There's a second exit into the trainee's infirmary."

"Good." Beka grabbed Iri's hand. "Go!" she hissed at Mieth, and she took off, carefully staying close to the wall and walking slow enough to look like any older student escorting a younger one.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Mieth casually cross the hall to another room, head down as if checking a note.

She found the room marked _Archive_ and opened the door, slipping into a massive storeroom full of row upon row of shelves. Scrolls, leather-bound books, flat stacks of parchment…

Beka had the sense to get away from the door and led Iri several rows in, ducking into a row of shelves marked _metallurgy_.

Moments later, Mieth, Fjalar, and a lad Beka recognized but had never met, arrowed inside, closing the door behind them.

"Beka!" Mieth hissed.

"Here!" she whispered back.

Nodding to Fjalar, they locked the door and quickly piled a stack of heavy trunks against it.

Iri broke free and ran to her brother, tears erupting.

"Shhhh!" Beka ran after her, desperately trying to hush her little cousin.

Beka and Mieth exchanged apologetic glances as Fjalar scooped up his little sister.

The other lad, the one Beka didn't know stepped around them. "Let me check the other door." He trotted off.

Fjalar slid into an unoccupied office and motioned Beka in after him. Mieth took up a guard position, eyes scanning the storehouse grimly.

It didn't take long for Beka and the weeping Iri to relate the horror of the massacre in the family quarters.

Fjalar listened, his face unusually solemn and pale as Beka finished by telling him everything Nama had said.

Just before she'd died.

Beka and Fjalar stared at each other.

"Where's my father?" he asked.

Beka felt herself deflate. "I don't know," she admitted. "He was there when I took Iri and Hannar into the Annex. They were all gone when I got back."

"My mother was still there?"

Beka cringed. "Yes. On the floor. She was breathing…Nama told me to take Gunz and go." She looked bleakly at her cousin. "I couldn't get them both," she said.

Fjalar's jaw was thrust forward, but he nodded.

"Nama said to take Iri to the mining families, to get Bofur. But I can't get to the mines, Fjalar. There are strange soldiers in the hub. I don't know any other way down."

"I do," Fjalar said, his face grim. "There are several."

The other lad returned and entered, making an all-clear signal with his hand. Mieth was with him and they both looked wide-eyed at Fjalar.

"Jarin, thank Mahal." Quickly, Fjalar briefed his fellow trainees on the crisis. "My brothers are still up there, Gunz is injured," he glanced at Beka. "Maybe seriously. We need to go get them."

"And take them where?" Beka asked.

"Healer hall," Jarin said. "Is right through there." He pointed behind them, to the other side of the archive.

"You're a healer trainee?" Beka asked.

Jarin nodded. "Third year."

"What about Iri?" Beka said. Her little cousin clutched her brother, sniffing back her tears.

Jarin looked at Iri. "One of Bofur's nieces is a year ahead of me," he said. "Embur."

Fjalar nodded. "We've met. Can you find her?"

Beka turned a fierce eye on her cousin. They couldn't include everyone or their chance at secrecy would be done.

"She's miner folk," Fjalar said to her. "She can take Iri, and she can get to Bofur faster than any of us."

"She can use the back stairs," Jarin explained. "That shaft was made special for the healers—has low-rise steps so it's easier to carry the sick up and down, so one else uses them. The doors are very discreet."

"Let's go," Fjalar said.

It didn't take too long for Jarin to find Embur, and Iri, thankfully, immediately associated the miner-born lass with Bombur's snail-shaped sweetrolls. Embur, it turned out, was one of Bombur's grand-daughters.

"Grandpapa's kitchen will be the best place to take her," Embur murmured, disturbed by the news. "He'll keep her safe, and I can get Uncle Bofur from there."

But Beka and Fjalar had looked at each other as Embur carried the princess-in-disguise to the healer stairs, both wondering how this would turn out.

They commandeered one more trainee that they knew and trusted, an older lass named Yódi, known for her hand-to-hand skills, and they made their way by back corridors to Joadmun the Apothecary's statue. They found the six-way intersection deserted, and Beka, the only one who knew the way, took them through the secret corridor. Yódi was stationed at the first turn, as guard to the corridor and help for Jarin when he came back with Gunz.

And if they never came back, her job was to get help.

Beka led the other three to the very old, carved wooden door. She pulled out the key on the blue silk cord, found the keyhole in the center of the door, and unlocked it.

* * *

Fjalar pushed his way past his cousin before she could stop him.

There, huddled together under a blanket, were his little brothers.

"F'lar…!" Hannar mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Fjalar scooped up the smaller lad, kissing his brow and pulling him aside, watching as Jarin carefully bent to look at Gunz.

_Gunz._ The whole side of his brother's face had purpled and swelled. Fjalar watched as Jarin checked the lad's eyes, felt his neck and spine, checked his arms, and then pinched his leg. Gunz flinched, even though he was out cold.

"Hey!" Fjalar frowned sharply at him, wondering what that was for.

"Just checking his reflexes," Jarin whispered. "It's a good sign; he reacted."

Fjalar understood, but he still felt a bit outraged. But he said nothing more, holding tight to Hannar and watching as Jarin checked Gunz's pulse and breathing.

Finally Jarin sat back and looked up, his face worried. "He needs a real healer, but I don't think we'll cause any more damage by moving him." Jarin stood, and Beka helped him get Gunz into piggyback position.

"I got him," Jarin said. He was a sturdy lad and easily carried Gunz. He reached for Hannar.

"Go with him, Hani," Fjalar used Hannar's baby name, trying to reassure him. "Help keep Gunz safe for me."

Hannar nodded at his big brother and willingly clutched Jarin's hand. Mieth opened the study door and let them out. They would join Yódi in the corridor, then she'd help them back to the trainee infirmary. Mahal willing, they'd all meet up again.

Fjalar had meant for Beka to go with Gunz, but she faced him, arms crossed. She knew what he meant to do next and it was just as well, he decided. She was the only one who knew how to work the secret wall.

He gave her a _get on with it_ gesture and she nodded to the wall right of the fireplace, and then pointed to a pine cone tile set into the mantle.

Fjalar and Mieth drew their long knives, and Fjalar tossed a third knife to Beka. He leaned his ear to the wall and listened. Nothing. But he wasn't sure if that meant the chamber beyond was quiet, or that the wall was so thick that he couldn't hear.

"It will open only a little when we push the tile?"

"Yes." Beka held up two fingers to show an inch of space.

He nodded. "You two stand ready—if there's still men in there, shove the wall shut and we run like hell."

She and Mieth moved into position and nodded.

Fjalar pressed the tile. The wall moved an inch.

They listened, and Fjalar put his eye to the crack.

Nothing. Cautiously, he slid the wall silently open a little more, listened, then opened a little more. Finally he stepped through.

Quiet. Still. Empty. Dark. A little light from the rooms beyond.

Mieth and Beka scrambled past, taking up defensive positions.

Inside the Annex, his uncle's quarters looked much as it ever did. Undisturbed. They eased themselves to the narrow hallway that joined the Annex to the King's rooms…

And found their first bloody corpse, a royal guard, on the floor.

Fjalar swallowed and stepped over him, eyes wide, ears straining.

Fjalar was not prepared for the impact of the scene inside. Nama, guts on the floor, dead. The bodies of Easterlings, foreign men, here and there. The chamberlain. Dead. More royal guard. Dead.

Beka pointed to the foyer.

It was heaped with dead, men and dwarves alike. Twenty or thirty, the floor slick.

Fjalar's stomach recalled throwing up at the sight of dead goblins when he'd seen his first battle action.

This was worse.

But somehow his anger at the scene in his parent's home over-rode his stomach this time.

Beka pointed to a black clad dwarf.

"Hothbrodd," she whispered, her lip curling. "Bastard."

The foreign dwarf was on his back, half his head bashed in, eyes staring up at nothing.

_Dead_ bastard, Fjalar thought. There were no survivors here.

"Where is my mother?" Fjalar demanded in a hoarse whisper.

Beka pointed back to the sitting room. Inside, she waved her arm at a particular wall, showing him the location of the secret door that had let the enemies in...now closed again.

He saw Beka step to a place near a tea table, motioning that this was where she'd last seen the Queen. But she shook her head.

Fjalar's eyes searched the room. Had his mother hidden herself? Then he spotted something, just to his right.

His father's swords, side by side on the floor, as if placed there.

He was on his knees before he knew it, sheathing his long knife and with tears blurring his vision, he reached out, lifting his father's twin blades into his own hands.

And the enormity of the crisis crashed over him like a silent avalanche. He knew there were tears streaming down his face, but he let them fall.

In his entire lifetime, nothing he knew would have ever forced his father to leave these behind…

Then a noise.

They all turned.

Bofur stood there, his eyes wide in shock.

"What are you thinking?" he said in a hushed voice, stepping over the dead to grab Fjalar by the collar and haul him up.

Fjalar let himself be pushed along, his father's swords still in his hands. Beka and Mieth followed, and Bofur had them back to yet another secret door, hurrying them through.

And then they were pushed past a crew of armed, grim-faced miners and hustled down a flight of stairs before Bofur stood them against a wall.

"Mahal's axe, laddie. You have to get out of here…!"

"I have to find my mother," Fjalar shot back, he felt the weight of his father's swords in his hands, but he didn't raise them.

"The lads," Bofur raised a hand toward the miners they'd just passed, "Will look for her. You," he said, poking Fjalar in the chest. "Find your common sense, lad." Bofur stared at him. "If you're father's gone, Fjalar, you are Erebor's King now."

* * *

Kili's caravan made camp just outside the gate that marked the Old Forest Road. They set up their gear, carefully replicating the look of an itinerant merchant's camp, including the tent ostensibly for the merchant himself. They had quick meals and cleaned up in the cool river that ran beside the road here. Tomorrow they would leave the river, so it was their last chance to really bathe for the next three days, when they would reach the headwaters of the Anduin.

His lady wife chivvied him into the tent as soon as the sun set.

"You didn't sleep at all last night," she said. "And you can not lead us through the Forest by staying awake for five days."

"I'm not taking anything to slow me down…"

She didn't let him finish. "I agree. Stop thinking it."

He looked at her. He should have known she wouldn't suggest it. She raised an eyebrow. "There are much easier ways to get you to relax and sleep," she murmured with a lopsided grin.

Indeed there were, but he still stared until her hands made her intentions much more clear.

And she was right. It was both easier and extremely pleasant, all at the same time.

Kili slept quite deeply afterwards.

But being a veteran of the early morning watch, he woke in the pre-dawn hours, tucked the blanket around his beloved's shoulders, and kissed her brow.

Then he dressed and took himself outside so Vit could stand down and catch another two hours of rest.

The hill dwarf nodded to his prince and then pointed silently to a couple of new additions to their group: two pointy-eared slender silhouettes armed with elven bows, sitting upright, ten feet apart at the eastern end of their camp, a pair of vigilant sentries in the night.

Tuilind and Yanu.

Kili sighed. He didn't particularly need extra company on this trip.

But he also knew that a couple more allies couldn't hurt.

* * *

_** **aznân** _= darkness, or the dark. (Thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar's Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary; google that if needed.)**

**Couple of inspiration sources, if you're interested. On my Durin's Day Pinterest Board (google Summer Alden Pinterest) is "Warrior in Red Cloak" by Alon Chau. To me, this is Prince Fjalar in another few years when he would be roughly the age of Kili in The Hobbit. I also posted several new works of ravens, who are about to play a big role in the story.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Edda, lieutenant in the Royal Guard, had survived the massacre in the family quarters by being wounded early and then forgotten. She had one leg that didn't work, steadily dripping blood despite the tight makeshift bandage around it, and an addled brain from hitting her head.

But she was doing better than her Queen.

She rested against the wall in a dark, narrow stairway that led relentlessly down, holding the unconscious Queen against her chest, both arms wrapped around her.

Lady An remained senseless. Edda wept silently, her heart aching. An was their Queen, and she was a mother, her little ones the pride of the Royal Guard, lad and lass alike.

And they'd all failed their King.

_We have a traitor_ _within. _A burning rage smoldered in Edda's heart and spurred her tears. That was the only answer. She'd seen the Easterlings erupt into the sitting room from the secret exit, she'd seen the rat dwarf who'd come with them, seen them take the King (putting up a tremendous fight) and flee through the escape tunnel.

Someone had let them in. Someone who knew the royal apartments. Someone who knew the escape route.

_Who?_ That question repeated itself in Edda's mind, over and over. _Who?_ And sometimes _Why?_

As Royal Guards, they wanted for nothing. They had the best quarters, generous salaries, time for personal pursuits and training, very reasonable duty schedules…they held coveted, elite places in the hierarchy of Erebor's military.

All that just brought her back to who? Who would betray their King? Betray the Sons of Durin? Betray every member of the guard?

Many of whom had just died to protect their King and his family.

_Trying to protect them._

And when she wasn't stewing on the who and the why, the events in the family apartment replayed in her head.

It was an ugly Easterling who'd sliced the back of her thigh and knocked her sideways. Everything went slow and fuzzy, and then Edda had come to senses enough to hear the Guard hacking at the heavy doors. She'd wanted to rise and fight. Tried to rise…

The Easterlings had cleared out, having gained their prize, temporarily leaving everyone else for dead.

Then she'd seen the Queen, bloody and forgotten not seven feet from her, and she knew her duty.

_Take the first family member you find and get them to safety._ The training of the Royal Guard was clear. There were no choices. First up and go, to the first safe exit you can find.

The first exit would have been the tunnel down to the ground level. But that one was compromised.

She'd managed to lift the Queen and hobble to the next one, a half-high panel normally hidden behind a cabinet…exposed in the melee. She'd found the trigger, opened the door, and pulled her queen through. Then she'd heard noises in the outer rooms and in a panic closed the panel behind her.

And there was no going back.

Trouble was, she didn't know exactly where this long descent would take them.

Lower levels, sure enough.

But where, exactly?

* * *

Beka stood with her back to the wall, facing one of her father's oldest friends: Bofur, head of the mining guild. She and Fjalar had just told him everything they knew—including the part about Hannar and Gunz being whisked away by trainees to the trainee's infirmary.

"And Iri's obviously with you," Fjalar finished, accounting for his brothers and sister.

She saw her cousin look at the twin swords in his hands. "And I'm not King," Fjalar said in a quiet voice. "I'm not old enough."

"Aye, there'll be a regent…but in the meantime, have a care, lad." Bofur's voice was quiet now, as shocked as they were.

"Bo_fur!_" A call came down from the lads who'd gone inside the royal apartments.

Bofur fixed a sharp eye on Fjalar. "Do not," he said, "Move from this place." Then he turned and charged up the stairs.

"Beka," Fjalar said, looking at his boots and obediently not moving. "Get up to the heights and ravenspeak, just like Nama said." He looked her in the eye, his expression serious. "Find my Uncle Kili…call him back to Erebor. See if the ravens can locate your father. Send a warning to Dale. Erebor is under attack…"

"I'm not a ravenspeaker yet." Her confirmation was supposed to be in three days.

"You completed the training," he said. "You can call a raven, Beka. Do it. And Nama was right. Stay up there and hide yourself."

It was Beka's turn to look at her boots. Nama's instructions had meant she must avoid the usual lookouts for ravenspeakers. Instead, she'd told Beka to "climb the mountain," referring to the training exercise every new cadet trainee had to do ten times before graduating to weapons training: take the one stairway that led all the way from the lowest levels to the highest. If you couldn't do it in less than four hours, you weren't trainee material.

She could certainly do it. She'd done it ten times, in fact.

At the top: a single lookout, just below the peak. It wasn't even known to most people.

No one could surprise them up there, and anyone who tried would be flat out exhausted when they arrived.

The top of the mountain was quite defendable. Even cadets could do it. And Nama had been right—if there were traitors in the mountain, they would secure the usual ravenspeaker stations and seek to prevent word from leaving Erebor.

She looked at her cousin and saw his expression turn hard. "You have to stay out of sight, Beka," he said. Fjalar knew the other threat as well as she did…that as Dwalin's daughter, there were dwarves out there who would see her as a breeding prize of great worth, under-aged or not.

Beka rejected that fate with all her heart and soul. _I am no one's bedwarmer…_

Fjalar looked her in the eyes as if to say he agreed. "Mieth, you will go with Lady Beka." He was using her formal title to make Mieth understand the importance of the task, but she wasn't used to hearing it. "She'll need a guard," he said. "And someone to run messages up and down the stairs…bring her food."

Beka heard Mieth let his breath out. She knew Mieth hated climbing the mountain.

"Can I enlist some help?" he asked.

"If it's handy, but don't slow yourselves down. If I can, I'll send some cadets or mining lads up."

"No adults," Beka said, glowering. "We can't trust 'em."

She saw Fjalar nod his agreement.

"It's always cold up there," he said to her. He tucked his father's swords under one arm and started patting his pockets. He unsheathed three more blades, secreted around his person. He handed them to Beka, and she added them to the long knife he'd already given her. Plus she had two throwing knives of her own.

"There's a survival kit up there…do you know where it is?" he asked.

"Yes." Beka nodded and stood away from the wall, ready to go.

"Uncle Kili once told me," Fjalar said, finding one last thing to give her: a flint that he kept in his trouser pocket. "That the fastest way to get a raven's attention is to start a small fire. A little smoke and they'll come looking. Should be some wood in the kit."

She nodded. She hadn't thought of that and gratefully accepted the flint that he handed her. "Got it." She started to turn, then looked back. "Fjalar?"

He looked up, his brows drawn together with worry.

"Stay safe."

Fjalar nodded. "You too. Climb fast."

They looked at each other, eyes wide. He grabbed her fisted hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it. "For my father," he said.

She bit back tears, but she knew he saw them welling in her eyes.

"And for the House of Durin," she answered, squeezing his hand in return. Then she turned and didn't look back, Mieth at her heels.

* * *

Bofur could not believe his eyes. He'd been a regular visitor to the King's private apartment and it was nearly the most secure set of rooms in the entire mountain.

But the place was a bloodbath. Thirty, maybe close to forty, dead and bloody corpses.

Miners weren't trained like the Guard. They couldn't read the aftermath of such things and say what had happened…but the lads could trace a gold vein through solid rock.

So it wasn't that hard for them to follow the blood trails. And the lads pointed to one that led straight into a wall and stopped.

"That's a secret door, or I'm completely daft," Bofur said. His hands brushed the stone, looking for a crack or some kind of mark or inset that would open it. "Trouble is, the trigger could be in a different room, or could even be a series of triggers…no way to know."

He looked at the bodies on the floor. Some of them were household staff. "Some of these poor lads knew, but I'm sure they can only tell the dead." He'd bowed his head in respect and those around him saw his shoulders fall.

The he nodded to himself. "Job for mattocks, lads," Bofur had declared. He held a hand out to one of his nephews who handed him a heavy mining axe before raising his own. They were joined by three others, swinging, pounding, and cracking the wall.

They broke through in minutes.

"Light!" Bofur demanded.

A miner's lantern was passed forward and Bofur grasped it, plowing through the broken rock to the passage beyond.

There was the trail of blood on the floor. Further on, signs of footsteps, maybe even of struggle disturbing the dust. Bits of gear dropped and forgotten.

A bit of leather. A piece of rivet.

A boot knife with a royal sigil on the hilt. He picked it up. He knew whose knife this was.

"Does anyone know where this passage leads?" he called back. He heard the lads discuss it, then answer no.

"Has anyone located Dwalin?" he asked.

"Not yet."

Bofur made a decision and turned back to the crew inside the apartment. "Looking for volunteers, lads. Could be fighting ahead, I won't lie. But my nose tells me they took the King and that's the way they went." He nodded firmly. "I'm going after the poor lad; see where this takes us. Who's with me?"

Bofur had no lack of grim-faced volunteers.

"Bendin," he pointed to his nephew, one of Bombur's lads. "Take the prince back to the mines. Hide him with your father. Do not," he said, "Let anyone take the lad away from the Mountain. This kingdom's ours as long as that lad remains inside. Do you understand?"

He watched Bendin nod. "Good lad." Bendin was the best of his nephews…more like himself, he liked to think. He patted the lad on the arm and led him back to the open passage they'd used to come in.

He sent Bendin down, calling to the young prince.

"Yes, sir?" Fjalar called back.

"I'm sending you down with Ben! Do not leave his side."

No answer.

"Do you understand me, lad?"

"Yes, Bofur. I understand."

The lad sounded unhappy, but Bofur knew Fili's son would obey.

"Bendin?" he called after his nephew. "Do what you need to keep the lad safe, aye?"

"Aye, uncle."

Bofur turned back to his miner lads.

"Head out…and watch for traps."

Several miners settled their hard hats and started through the broken entry, determined to lead the way.

And Bofur followed. He was on the hunt.

* * *

Around the mountain, the people of Erebor were starting to understand that something unusual was going on. No one was prevented from going home, but they were questioned by unfamiliar guards with accents no one really recognized, and some of the passages were suddenly off limits. Blocked.

_Southerners, someone said. A branch of the Stiffbeards. _

Guards reported for shift change, finding their ready rooms empty. The rank and file from the earlier shift should have been present for muster, making the usual exchange of information. The few who showed seemed baffled…

Rumors began to circulate. _Easterlings. _Someone swore they'd seen Easterlings.

_Meant to ambush Gondor's King, but came three months late to the party._

Erebor's people soothed each other.

_Just another exchange program of some sort, from a distant House. Ironfists or Blacklocks. Orocarni._

_No doubt the King would get to the bottom of this._

_Fili would not let this stand if it wasn't by rights._

_We'll likely wake in the morning to hear it's all over._

And such was the faith of Erebor's people that they bedded down for the night, comforted by their kin and kith, secure in their homes and dorms.

In the lowest levels of the mountain, two young trainees made it to the foyer at the bottom of a particular set of stairs. They'd grabbed miner's helmets and quick supplies of food on their way through the miner's levels, even commandeering a small crew of miner's apprentices, four lads and two lasses, to bring along.

No one spoke as Beka shined her headlamp up the staircase. It was a four hour climb, straight up.

In another stairway, elsewhere in the mountain, the Guard lieutenant Edda had managed to bring her Queen several more levels down the escape stairs. But she traveled slow and in complete darkness. She finally rested, easing the poor Lady to the floor.

Edda checked the bandage tied tight around a slice that had severed muscle on the back of her leg.

Soaked. Painful and throbbing. She tore a strip from the Queen's skirt with a silent apology, wrapping it on top of the existing mess and tying it as tight as she could, but she was losing blood.

Maybe some rest would do them good…maybe the Queen would wake and they'd find an exit from this place.

Deep in the mining quarters, Fjalar held his little sister in lap, warm in front the fireplace in old Bombur's rooms. She had been cleaned up and looked more like Iri, the King's daughter again. She was sound asleep, an uneaten piece of pastry in one hand.

He looked up when Bendin answered a knock at the door and allowed old Bombur to come in, carrying a young lad in his big arms. "Look who we smuggled down from the trainee level," he said.

Fjalar heaved a sigh of relief. It was Hannar, sound asleep.

"And Gunz?" he asked.

Old Bombur shook his head. "Still out cold. Healers've got him in a room up there, out of the way. Safe enough." Bombur settled Hannar on the big bed not far from the fire. "Bring the lassie, too," he said. Together they settled the two children under a warm blanket.

"You need sleep too, lad," Bombur said.

Fjalar shook his head. "I can't. Not yet."

Bombur nodded, letting the young prince turn away.

Fjalar felt like his entire world had just fallen apart as he went back to his place on the floor next to the fire. His father's swords were there, next to the hearth. He picked one up, pulled a cleaning rag from his coat pocket, and started to work.

Blades had to be tended, his father had always told him. Fjalar had grown up watching his Da care for these swords. Didn't seem right to let them sit sullied by the blood of enemies and traitors.

So he worked, well guarded by Bendin and watching over his little brother and sister.

He turned his father's swords over in his hands as he cleaned, wondering how long it would take to get used the weight of these blades, learn how to swing them, how to fight properly with even one.

He'd never really wanted someone's blood before.

But he knew he wanted it now.


	6. Chapter 6

****So grateful for everyone's encouragement**…I've had a couple questions about Easterlings—who are indeed canon—and in fact are historical enemies of Rohan (having once inhabited the lands now ruled by The Mark) and they were the main force which over-ran Dale and held Erebor under siege during the War of the Ring—just three years prior to this series of AU! stories. See RoTK, appendice B just after the events of March, 3019 as reference, if needed. Huge thanks to all of you who've dropped a note or reviewed…your comments are really good to hear and helpful in keeping me going on this. Drop a note whenever you can—either a quick review or PM. It's all good. Mahal's blessing…Summer.**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Dwalin, son of Durin, Lord of Erebor, had spent his day on the mountain's Western Slope, riding circuit and ending his tour at the Western Outpost. As the sun set, the ravens who had traveled with him settled contentedly, and he joined the outpost commander, Tórthur, a longtime friend, for dinner and ale.

They talked long into the night, mostly about Dwalin's idea to build a new Far West station out near the Pinnacles.

"It would be a help, no doubt," Tórthur said. "That area takes a day to reach and has caused the most trouble lately."

Then Dwalin changed the subject. "Aragorn's visit unsettled the lads a bit," he said, meaning the King and his brother.

Tórthur puffed his pipe and raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

"Wants Kili to return to the Blue Mountains. They've asked for him as King. Aragorn as much as demanded we make it so."

Tórthur smiled. He was close in age to Dwalin, a child of Erebor raised in the Blue Mountains, and he had returned to Erebor with the first group who traveled back. "They could do worse," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Dwalin understood the jest. An understatement if there ever was. "They could at that," he agreed. Then he leaned forward. "If we send the lad, next spring…would you go along? He'll need the right people with him to help get a sense of things, earn their trust. My job," he said, hand on heart, "Is to stay with Fili."

Tórthur nodded. "You promised his Uncle as much."

"Aye. Can't leave the lad now. But someone who remembers the Blue Mountains under Thorin should go with Kili. He'll need steady hands along."

Tórthur tapped out his pipe and sighed, a big smile on his face. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Fili woke and struggled to sit up immediately. _Gunz…!_

Then stopped, completely baffled. He was sitting on the ground in absolute darkness. Silence. Dank smell…decidedly not Erebor.

And he was wearing nothing but his trousers…not even his boots or a belt.

His hands were tied in front…wrapped with thick rope. _Bargesailor's rope…? _It was man-made.

He had no memory of coming to this place and his mind was oddly blank…even if his heart was hollow with an undefined fear for his son…for his entire family.

He sat, blinking in the darkness as he tried to clear his head. He absently tested the wiggle room inside the thick rope handcuffs. What had happened?

Slowly he recalled opening a door to chaos in the family quarters. Fighting with his swords.

Easterlings.

The sight of one flinging his young son against a wall.

He suddenly recalled that very clearly: _Gunz kicking wildly, held up and used as a shield by an Easterling. The man roars, flinging the lad at the wall…his small body hits the wall with a thud. _

Fili saw the horrible image in his mind: his son falling bonelessly to the floor in a still heap.

"Gunz," he said aloud, hearing his husky voice break. _Mahal, what happened? How did I get here? And where the hell is here?_

He moved, thinking to get to his feet, but he was overcome with a wave of nausea and hunched over, retching. _Khakfe._

Sore head…behind his right ear.

Easterlings. His addled brain settled on that detail. _Easterlings...and a lone Slaghead. _

Easterlings were old enemies of Rohan, and he'd just sent his brother off with a load of gold destined to help greatly strengthen Rohan.

_Kili…_

Easterlings had defeated Dale back in the final battle. Dale's people only survived because he opened the halls of Erebor to their refugees.

Easterlings had killed King Brand…killed Dain Ironfoot. Had tried to kill him…would have, except for his brother.

_Kili!_

Allies of Mordor. Mordor was defeated, but there were still roving bands of dark forces around. Oh, yes.

_Who would let those bastards into the Mountain?_ He wanted his brother on somebody's trail...wanted to know if Erebor was over-run.

_Kili…!_

He retched again, more of a dry heave than anything else.

What was really happening here? If this was supposed to be revenge against him, he'd be dead by now. The fact that he was alive enough to retch on the floor in the dark meant he was a hostage…a bargaining chip.

Against who?

_Rohan, Gondor. Maybe both of them._ Aragorn had just been here.

Fili decided he didn't actually care about the answer to that question at the moment. The thing that overwhelmed everything else in his mind was the vision of his little son, his innocent young lad, only half-grown. _He's just a baby…!_ Gunz's small body hitting the wall with a thud…falling bonelessly to the floor in a still heap.

_Mahal…where's my son? Please let him be alive…_

* * *

Beka, cadet trainee and daughter of Lord Dwalin, left the last miner lad on a landing about 8,000 steps up.

"About two thousand to go," she said, resting a moment, bent at the waist, hands on her knees, heaving for breath.

Mieth had dropped to the ground and groaned.

The miner lad, Rúni, was in the same shape.

"Stay here, Rúni," she said between breaths. "You'll be our first relay down…Mieth brings you a message, all you have to do is take it down to Alfin and pass it on. We get more trainees, the relays'll be closer together."

Rúni nodded.

"You got your coat? Food? Water?"

Rúni nodded again.

"Let's hope your lads downstairs follow through and send supplies up," she blew her breath out, trying to calm her heartbeat.

"They will," Rúni breathed. "Piece of cake for miners, lass. We relay food and messages in and out of mine shafts all the time."

Beka nodded. "Good to know." She reached down and held out a hand to Mieth. "Let's go."

* * *

At sunrise, the flock of ravens who roosted around Ravenhill were perplexed. The nuts and treats which usually appeared on the feeding ledge hadn't been delivered. All they found were the bits and crumbs left from the day before.

And there were no Friends at Ravenhill. No ravenspeakers with arms raised for them to alight and converse.

They put up a hue and cry for a short while, complaining loud enough that any lazy Friend would hear it and come running with an apology.

The idea of it.

But no one came.

Kaia, a seasoned veteran now, decided to vacate when someone (not a dwarf, but a man) threw a stone at her. She laughed at him, easily avoiding the insult, but she flew away west.

There would be food at the Western Terrace. Ravenspeaker Friends would be there. The rest of the Ravenhill flock followed…first just a few, then the entire mob.

But when they arrived at the Terrace, the flock there rose to chase them off. _No food, but if it shows up, it's ours!_

Kaia landed on a rock, then defended her position with beak open and wings outspread.

_Not right! Not right!_ She called. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Finally Klaak of the Terrace flock landed in front of her, eyeing her first with his left, then his right eye.

"What do you mean, wrong? Speak!"

Kaia conveyed her worry. No Friends at Ravenhill. No Friends on the Terrace. "Where are the Friends?"

"Raven Prince and Hen-hen rode away," Klaak stated.

Kaia bobbed. Yes. That was known. "Corax went with them. But where is King? Nut Head? One eye? King but not King? Club-tail? Beaknose? The others?"

And then a raven from Dale winged in, complaining. "No one speaks in Erebor this morning."

Kaia and Klaak agreed. No one.

"Circle the mountain," Kaia demanded. "Look, look, look. Raise the flock. Tell Dale…no one to speak in Erebor."

The Dale raven flew off, returning to Peas, the ravenspeaker in Dale.

Kaia took to the air, heading for the Ledge higher up the mountain from the Terrace.

Klaak raised his flock, sending them far and wide.

_Find a raven friend…search the Mountain._

* * *

Edda, lieutenant in the Royal Guard, finally saw a flicker of light at the bottom of the stairs, still far below.

_Mahal…_

Maybe there was help. She eased the unconscious weight of her queen gently to the floor, resting her against the steps, squeezing the Lady's hand in apology.

If she could hobble down, see who was there…maybe get someone to help.

"I'll come back for you, my Lady," she promised in a whisper. Lady An couldn't hear her, but Edda felt it rude not to say it. Standing awkwardly on one foot, she looked resolutely down the stairs and limped down two more steps.

She used her hands now, bracing against the walls to steady herself in the narrow staircase, ears sharp for sounds.

_Think, lass,_ she told herself, though she was decidedly light-headed. _If there were enemies upstairs, there could be enemies down here._

But she heard nothing. She slowed as she approached the opening. The rock transitioned from rough hewn walls to a slick, smooth finish.

What would be so well constructed this far down?

The stairs ended at a 90 degree angle to the room beyond. She reached the final step, shuffled into the tiny foyer, then turned to face the open room beyond.

She stopped in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dim light in a cavernous hall. Oil lamps, the kind with deep reservoirs. Long-burning…

She spotted three, then five. Seven lamps. Something solid in the center of the space, a mithril inscription shining dully in the flickering light.

Her stomach went hollow. She was in the tombs.

That was Thorin Oakenshield.

* * *

Fili had managed to stop retching and get to his feet. He'd even found a wall in the darkness.

No water, no food. No answers. Just a wall.

Barefoot and chilled, he was trying to explore his prison...how big? Was there a door? Wood or iron? Was anyone else here?

All he knew so far was this was not Erebor stone. It didn't speak to him. It didn't feel right.

The floor he'd explored was flat, pressed earth, and the walls were granite-rough, but straight plumb, so it had been carved out by someone. It was not a natural cave. This could have been an old armory or a dorm for troops maybe.

He was working his way to the left, feeling his way cautiously. His hands found a chain, dangling down the wall.

He didn't much like that development. Still, a length of chain could be handy in a fight.

If he could get his hands free, he could climb it, hand over hand. See how high the wall was. But his head still sloshed a bit when he looked up.

Maybe later. He suspected there would be plenty of time to get the rope off his wrists and come back to it.

He finally felt his questing hands bump into a door frame.

_Yes. Wood…no hinges…must open out. Likely barred on the other side, but no telling. _

Huh. He pressed his ear to the wood. _Anyone out there?_

He listened for a long time.

He pounded once, just to see if anyone reacted.

Nothing.

He pounded again, raising a ruckus… "Let me out!" he shouted.

No response. _No one's there, or no one will answer. _

Dejected, he sat, back to the wall. He wanted a raven. How far was he from home? He had no idea. If he could trust his senses—and he usually knew north from south, even underground—his senses told him he was south of the Mountain. How far and whether southeast or southwest, he couldn't guess.

Fili sighed. Someone had certainly known to take his coat, shirt and boots from him. He supposed it was no secret anymore than he kept weapons hidden about his gear.

But thank Mahal they'd left him with his trousers. His pockets were empty…but he had one more trick up his sleeve, so to speak.

In the seam of his left trouser leg, his fingers found a nub. He worked loose the tip of a long thin strip of metal with a serrated edge. After awhile, he had enough of it exposed to draw it from its narrow sheath.

It was something like a wire saw, but more rigid. The trick would be to hold it…but he managed by getting one end in his teeth and bracing the other against a crack in the floor. It took the right touch, but he was able to move the rope around his wrists up and down, the serrations cutting into the thick rope a little bit more with every pass.

It would be slow going…but at least there was no one to stop him.

* * *

_Khakfe _= crap or sh*t. From Thorin's curse directed at Thranduil while in prison, DoS.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Bofur, long time friend of Erebor's King, jogged steadily down a long, long staircase with a rag-tag group of hardy miners in pursuit of whoever had abducted Fili. They followed the escape route down several levels, unsure where it would come out. And what would they find? An ambush? A locked gate?

"The door!" one of the lads called back to him.

"Hold on, now." Bofur shouldered his way forward. "Let me get a look before we go charging out there…" Bofur passed the lads in the corridor and then slowed as he felt the night-time breeze on his face. He approached the open entry ahead of them, raising his lantern high, eyes on the floor.

Bofur's miner eyes were sharp—but there was not much to see. He finally waved his lads to the right of the corridor. "Don't walk here," he pointed to the left. "Man-sized footprints going in…this is how the bastards got inside, all right." He lifted his head to look at the open doorway.

Stepping carefully, Bofur eased up to the open door, listening. Outside, it was still dark; sunrise was still a few hours away.

"We're east of the waterfall," Bofur said, orienting himself. "And my money says they lit off in that direction," Bofur pointed into the night toward the very trail that had once led Thorin Oakenshield from the shore of the long lake to the hidden door, high above. "Should be easy enough to follow. Two of you stay here…guard this opening. We might need it to get back inside." He trusted that the lads he'd left upstairs would have secured the king's quarters by now.

"Let's go, lads!" With that, Bofur charged into the night, his crew of miners with him, jogging steadily south along a rise that paralleled the River Running.

By the time they reached The Overlook and stopped for a quick rest, dawn was not far off. Across the valley, they could see the rooftops of Dale.

"Looks quiet over there," one of the lads, Vigg, spoke quietly, handing Bofur a waterskin. "And look at these." Vigg showed him hoofprints.

Horses, not ponies. Multiple horses, from the look of the trampled area.

Enough hoofprints to show that the Easterlings who'd taken Fili were probably on horseback now.

"Mahal's tail," Bofur took a swig of water, narrowing his eyes, wondering how a dozen miners would catch up to twice as many horses. Around them, the birds were waking up. From somewhere uphill, a falcon screeched. Smaller birds chirped and called. One raven was on the wing, swooping up the slope from Dale. It circled, then swooped. Circled, then swooped.

Bofur stared. Over the years he'd seen everyone from Thorin to young Fjalar talk to Erebor's ravens. The birds were smart and well known as allies.

"I would bet anything that raven's trying to tell us something," he said to his lads, lifting his mattock to point at the raven.

"By my beard," Vigg said. "Something's over there." He tapped two of the others and trotted off, signaling to Bofur that they'd take a look and report back.

Bofur let them go, keeping an eye on the raven.

One lad came back almost immediately.

"Three Easterlings," he whispered to Bofur. "Two asleep and one dozing."

Bofur looked south. The sky was barely light enough to make silhouettes of the brush around them.

"We're never gonna catch those bastards on horseback," he conceded. "But we can take these three numbskulls." He nodded to his crew. "Tie 'em up, lads. These three are going to sing a few songs for us."

And sing they did. The raven oversaw the proceedings from a perch in a scrubby pine, watching the miners from the moment they launched the surprise attack to the threats that turned the sorry Easterlings into three chatty fellows.

It was a trick Bofur had learned from the Dale men…who'd taught him that more than death, Men feared maiming injuries, and their bones were far more fragile than a dwarf's. Threaten to crush their feet with heavy mattocks and most men would pale in fear and rush to answer any question whatsoever. It helped that these three were already nursing a few wounds—which was likely why they'd been left behind. They weren't at their fearsome best.

"It's a little hard to understand them," Vigg observed. "They don't exactly speak Westron, do they?"

Bofur shook his head, eyes intent on an Easterling with a bruised jaw.

"War be here soon," the Easterling said in broken Westron, glaring at Bofur. "Then you die."

"How many?" Bofur asked, picking up his mattock as if ready to take aim at a foot.

The Easterling's eyes went wide and he tried to scoot his feet away.

"Legion," the Easterling blurted. "Whole legion marches. You see."

"Where's Fili?" Bofur demanded, thrusting his mattock into the Easterling's face.

The man spat on the flat of the hammerhead. Then he smiled, showing several missing teeth. "Far underground. Far from _here."_

The raven launched itself from the scrubby pine with a furious cry. Bofur watched it wing away.

Did the ravens know of caves or old mines south of Erebor? Did they know where the Easterlings' legion mustered?

"We follow that bird." Bofur said to the miner lads. "This filth stays here."


	8. Chapter 8

****Thank you to followers** **and readers!** Huge extra thanks to writing buddy and beta reader **BlueRiverSteel **(and check out her stories if you haven't seen them!) Translations in the footnotes, and reviews and PMs are very helpful, so don't be shy, even if you're just now discovering the story. Finally, some art depicting Easterlings has been added to my Pinterest page-just google "Summer Alden pinterest" and look for the Durin's Day board. (And Summer Alden is an alias, worry not.)

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Fili, Son of Durin and King Under the Mountain, sat alone in the dark, clad only in his trousers, working the thick rope bonds around his wrists against a thin strip of serrated metal.

It required careful work, despite the danger. The rope was thick and the wire saw thin.

And while he worked, his brain tried to piece together what he could remember.

His captors were Easterlings. _Scum. Bastards. Men of Sauron._

Obviously they were not written off or he wouldn't be in this mess, though exactly how he'd gotten here wasn't entirely apparent.

His only clear memory replayed over and over in his head: his young son Gunz slamming against a wall and falling limp to the floor.

_A man holds Gunz in his arms. An Easterling. Gunz is struggling. _

_Fili sees the lad kicking in fury. Gunz, barely old enough to start weapons training, putting up a fierce fight._

_The Easterling roars in anger, flinging the lad against a wall. Gunz goes limp, falling to the floor._

Fili didn't remember what came next…his brain took him back to the beginning and replayed it again, adding in a few more details.

_Gunz is held up like a shield. He's struggling and a dwarf reaches out lightning fast and smacks the lad hard. Gunz's head turns with the force of it, and Fili can see the lad's eyes squeeze tight with pain._

_All right! Fili had said, drawing the attention back to him. He'd set his twin blades at his feet and the look in Gunz's eyes had been so full of despair...he was kicking again and the Easterling roared in anger…_

_Gunz falling to the floor, limp._

Fili stopped sawing against the thick rope of his bonds, struggling with his own fragmented memory.

And then there was something else, something worse.

_What?_

He stared into the absolute darkness…why couldn't he remember? He fingered the slim blade between fingers, brows drawn together.

He forced his brain to back up in time. What had he done that morning?

Swords. He'd been at practice with Gunz. They'd come upstairs. He recalled opening the door at the top.

_Smell of fresh blood…throwing knife in his hand…someone with hands on his lady wife, restraining her…he'd thrown without even thinking…the man (man!) had fallen, An had broken free._

An. The whole scene flooded back: _An had broken free, there was fighting. Nama, gutted and dying. Gunz, taken. A tattered man gets to An, grabs her and bares her throat, a wicked knife at the ready…he strikes An on the head with the pommel. Fili sees her collapse to the floor. No!_

"No…" he whispered, hands still, eyes staring into the pitch black darkness.

An, mother of his children, the errant lassie who'd mesmerized him some forty years ago by singing uninvited in the King's Hall…

And then a marriage that had happened so fast…started so awkwardly, wed to a lass he barely knew, and he barely understood lasses to begin with. But Erebor required an heir, and his people expected him to get on with it.

The first few months had been so unsettled and wrong-footed.

But he'd come to love her…so very much. It happened when Fjalar was born…they'd fallen in love with their tiny newborn, then each other, finally united by parenthood. And then they'd found their way forward together.

_The tattered man raises his long knife… strikes a savage blow and her head rocks forward. He drops her and she crumples to the floor. _

"No…" he whispered again, aware of tears on his face. _An…_ He couldn't even form words around the horror. His brain only knew her name, only wanted to find her in the dark and wrap his arms around her, hold her close. Was she all right? Was someone taking care of her?

She would have seen the same thing he'd seen…Gunz, flung at the wall, collapsing limp.

_Our young lad…our second son._

Fili felt the sorrow in his gut: enemies in the heart of the mountain, intruders in his home.

It was the most personal violation of the thing most valuable to any dwarf. An insult to his ability to protect his own.

Things would never be right again. He felt it in his bones.

Then he became aware of sounds outside. Noise on the other side of the door.

_Mahal._

Fili grabbed his wire saw, hands finding the frayed hole in his trouser seam, and he managed to slide the thin blade back into its makeshift sheath.

More noise.

_Someone's coming._

The rope bonds weren't completely cut, so he twisted them around to hide the saw mark. He stood, unable to see in the dark. His urge was to find the wall, get something behind his back, but there wasn't time.

The door burst open and the first thing he knew was blinding light in his face: a lantern, burning bright, held high by someone he couldn't see.

Fili squinted and turned his face aside, but he refused to cower. He stood still, hands tied in front, face averted from the painful light.

Many feet shuffling. Not heavy dwarf boots…human feet. _How many? Me, unarmed, against how many?_

"Durin King." The light moved left and right.

Was that a question? He didn't answer.

Then they came at him, four men against one dwarf.

They pushed him until he slammed against the wall, then came the blows—fists to his arms and shoulders, knee to his gut.

But they fought like men fighting another man. They didn't really understand how to hurt a dwarf.

_Aulë__ made the dwarves strong to endure._

The men kept him pinned against the wall, their arms pressing him against it, their fists coming against his muscle, his jaw. There was even blood. His blood.

_Aulë made the Dwarves strong and unyielding…_

The man with the lantern called out a command and the blows stopped. Fili's teeth clenched and he gasped for air.

"You are convinced not to resist us?"

Fili couldn't answer, but he didn't fight back, either.

"Come."

Then they were dragging him forward, through the door, down a hallway. Up stairs, around a corner, up more stairs. Fili went along, wondering where this led, senses sharp for a chance to break away.

And then he felt it.

_Erebor stone…stone of the mountain beneath my feet. Mahal, yes. _

He let the men haul him along as the sense of Erebor's silent power infused him. Calmed him. Erebor stone was a good thing. He could use that.

Then a new room, dimly lit by torch light, large and cavernous.

He was thrown to the floor, landing on his shoulder and rolling into a defensive crouch.

He faced an Easterling whose nose and mouth were hidden behind a black scarf. The man was tall, his armor elaborate and decorated. Some kind of noble rank.

"You will forge." The voice was human and rough.

Fili blinked. Had he heard that right? "What…slave labor? There are better smiths than me."

"No. Durin King. You will forge." The noble Easterling gestured to the room behind him.

Fili looked. It was indeed an old smithy's workshop: dusty, basic…with a forge, an anvil…coal.

Fili stared. Was he serious?

"You make for me," the Easterling said, pounding his fist against his chest. "Magic sword. Never misses stroke, never rusts…cuts through stone and iron like cutting cloth."

Fili wiped blood off his mouth with the back of his tied hands, regarding the arrogant bastard.

"Like Sting. You want a sword like Sting." Mahal. That was a long-lost art. "I can do no such magic."

"Blood of Durin," the Easterling pointed at Fili. "_Ukhbâb_." He pointed at the old workshop.

Fili scowled in derision at the Easterling's bad pronunciation. The _Ukhbâb_ was a myth: the greatest forge, built by Thrain the Old…his great-grandfather's namesake.

The noble Easterling brought his hands together as if satisfied that the two requirements for a magic sword had been met.

"You will forge," he concluded.

So. The noble Easterling wanted a magic sword made by Durin's heir. Fili knew what that meant. This man wanted to prevail in battle, win every conquest…defeat all enemies, starting with him.

Powerful stuff.

Fili looked at the dirty stone of the floor. He was, of course, a journeyman smith…albeit an out-of-practice smith. He'd been taught by Thorin, in fact, years ago as a lad in Ered Luin.

And while dwarves were mighty spellcasters when needs be, it was not easy. After years of using the mithril spells in Erebor, he did know the basics: exceptional metal plus contact with the stone of Erebor. He even knew the concepts behind the making of a magicked sword. They were called Tyrfing Blades, and they were tricky, tricky things.

Fili let his breath out and pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing. This was an opportunity to get a weapon and find a way out of this place if he could play it right.

"This forge is long cold. It will take time to see if everything is here." He forced himself to look the Easterling in the eye. "Takes time to restart the fire."

"I give three days."

"You will bring me food and water."

The Easterling gestured to one of the others, who saluted and left, presumably to get food.

"You will not bind my hands."

The man snorted.

Fili twisted his wrists, breaking the last threads of the sawn rope, holding his hands apart for the first time in hours. "No ropes, no chains, no bonds of any kind. No one touches me." Fili glared into the Easterling's eyes.

Several of the Easterling's men stepped back. The noble one's eyes looked amused, then he nodded just slightly in silent regard.

"You will take me outside after sunrise and before sunset so I can breathe fresh air."

The Easterlings laughed.

Fili stayed silent and let the demand remain between them. If the noble wanted his blade bad enough, a little sunshine was a small thing.

"Fresh air. Outside," the Easterling folded his arms across his chest. Finally he shrugged. "What's it to me? Yes."

Fili kept his expression still as stone. "And you will vacate Erebor, withdrawing your forces south of the Long Lake."

The Easterling narrowed his eyes.

Fili stood firm.

This, it seemed, would be the sticking point.

* * *

Dwalin, Lord of Erebor, had bunked for the night at the Western Outpost.

He rose about one hour after sunrise, dunked his head in the barracks' rain barrel and toweled off. He stepped outside, breathed in the western outpost's pine scented air, and headed for the outdoor training yard for some morning axe practice.

He made it to the wooden benches used by lads who watched and wagered on bouts, then discovered the benches alive with a nervous mob of ravens, and an entire flock of them darting back and forth between the trees.

Four of them flew straight at him, all attempting to land when he hadn't even proffered an arm.

_Attack! Attack inside the mountain! _

_King is taken! King is taken!_

_Many dead! Traitors inside!_

_Mountain Lassie speaks from the mountain top. Only Mountain Lassie. No one speaks on Ravenhill._

Dwalin demanded some order from the ravens as Guard lads came to see if they could help, then realized the ravens were just desperately trying to communicate with a ravenspeaker.

"Call the commander!" Dwalin gasped to them, with a flapping raven on his arm, one on his shoulder, and another clutching at his hand. "Battle stations, lads!"

He struggled to sort the ravens' reports, piecing together the news, and sending them off on new assignments: to Dale, back to the mountaintop, to fly reconnaissance.

When the Western Outpost's commander arrived, the lad looked pale.

"What's this about?"

"Commander, have you had the morning courier from the Main Gate?"

"No, my lord. We have not." He looked taken aback.

"The gate is compromised. We have traitors inside the mountain."

The commander's eyes narrowed. "Where is the King?"

"Taken, apparently." Dwalin glared. "Yesterday afternoon. Bofur tracks Easterlings south along the eastern shore of the Lake."

"We have much to do," the commander said, gesturing for his lieutenants and heading for his command post.

"Aye, lad. That we do." Dwalin looked to the peak of Erebor. He raised his arm again, calling in several ravens.

Every message that the ravens carried had come from one unconfirmed ravenspeaker who'd somehow managed to station herself at the top of the mountain.

Pride swelled in his heart even as fear and anger hardened his resolve. He focused on sorting the incoming jumble of messages.

_Traitors have taken Fili; fifty dead; Queen missing; Easterlings; All ravens report to mountaintop; all messages in and out only there; Bofur on the hunt; Fjalar, Hannar, Iri with Bombur; Gunz near death._

_The Queen is missing._

And more the desperate worry of young lass: _Da? Tell me where you are! We can't get to you…stay out of the mountain. Beware the Easterlings._

He had three ravens on his person and four more perched on nearby railings when Dwalin spoke seriously to them, sending out a dire call. "Fly south to the Old Forest Road. Find Raven Prince, many days gone. Codeword Red Day. Bring him home, my friends."

The ravens quorked, screamed their defiance to the bad news they'd be carrying, and then took wing like a small war-flock.

Dwalin watched them go. Kili had to be five days away at least.

He called one more raven. It was Kaia, a young hen.

"To Mountain Lassie," he murmured to the hen, and he was suddenly overcome with emotion at the thought of his young daughter, his lassie-child who he'd only met this past spring. Such a brave lass, Daughter of Durin all the way. How had he been so blessed? And how much danger is she in? With a heavy heart, he knew he was too far away to protect her.

There was only one way he could help.

"Tell her good lass; proud, love, hold your ground," he told Kaia the Raven hen. "Tell her-look for supply kit. Eat. Stay warm." Kaia eyed him as if she understood the notion of caring for nestlings. Dwalin took a moment to stroke the little hen, hoping she could convey his love for his fierce young lass. "And message for the young prince: it's a Red Day. I remain at the Western Outpost."

He watched the hen dart away. Despite a moment of regret, Dwalin knew his duty. If he and Beka were the only free ravenspeakers, he must stay here and coordinate troops, and until he heard from Dale, he had to work on the assumption that they were only two who could do so.

But he didn't want to. He wanted to ride east and track the King.

"Fili," he murmured, grabbing his axe. "Where are you, lad?"

* * *

Kili, brother to the King of Erebor, halted his caravan. Their ponies needed watering and they'd just reached a spring-fed clearing with water troughs for travelers to use.

They weren't the only ones visiting, however.

"My Lord Lhainon," Kili bowed his head, hand on heart, to the elf who stood near the first trough. Kili dismounted and led his pony forward to drink. A woodland elk, obviously Lhainon's, looked up from drinking for a long moment, then, uninterested, put its nose back down.

"You lead an unusual caravan," Lhainon observed, rudely disregarding Kili's greeting and not returning it. "Does my Lord Thranduil know you ride with criminals?"

"Why can't you leave them be?" Kili asked. "Yanu served the time his King required, did he not?"

"It was a petty sentence for the crime. The slave should never go free."

"Calling him a slave says you disapprove of his sentence and of your King," Kili observed. "If you're unhappy with the price he paid, take it up with Thranduil. Shall I petition him on your behalf?"

Lhainon stared at him. "You overspeak, dwarf."

"Yet I can petition Lord Thranduil any time I want. Can you?" Kili met Lhainon's eyes steadily.

"He tolerates you," Lhainon scoffed.

"He understands the value of good relations with the only ally that stands between him and the East," Kili let his pony reach for the water and drink.

"He doesn't like you," Lhainon sneered.

Kili just smiled. "And I care not. I'm not here to be liked, Lhainon. I'm here to do my job."

Lhainon looked like he suddenly smelled dung. "What's it to Thranduil if you make trade with someone? Don't lie. We know you go to a rendezvous."

Kili opened his saddle bag, digging for his hoof pick. "I'm glad we're not lying. It makes me feel less guilty when I tell you it's none of your business…not in the slightest."

"I don't like dwarves," Lhainon said.

Kili shrugged. "You don't have to like anyone. You are, of course, free to occupy your time with some other pursuit." He found his hoof pick and stood back. "This is the open road, Lhainon. We have equal rights in this place. And forgive the presumption…but as we are south of the Mirkwood Mountains, you're far from home ground."

"Do not tell an elf of the woodlands where he can go."

"Wouldn't think of it. But I would happily tell Thranduil I shot you in self defense." He looked over his shoulder at the rest of his company, dismounting and eyeing Lhainon, their expressions wary. At the back of the group, Tuilind had armed her bow and held it low and ready. "No one here would say it was otherwise."

Lhainon made a quick assessment of the dwarves and elves in Kili's caravan. He was easily outnumbered. He scowled. "Tell Tuilind to keep her _tab-melin_ and plaything at home. He is not welcome in the Greenwood." He leapt lightly to the elk's back, and using just his knees to guide the great beast, turned into the forest.

Kili watched him go, his expression sober.

Skirfir led the first of the pack ponies up to the water trough. "I always thought they were so noble and above it all," he murmured.

Kili smiled as his young friend. "Even elves have a breaking point, Skirf," he said. "Enough bad things happen and anyone is changed for the worse. We all have blind spots."

Skirfir nodded to Tuilind, who walked toward them.

"Thank you," she said to Kili. "For defending our right to be here."

Kili frowned. "This will not resolve just because he's moved off for the time being."

Tuilind sighed. "You're right."

"Do you not have arbitrators?" Kili asked. "Is there some additional recompense that would satisfy him?"

"Short of returning his dead brother to him, I doubt it," Tuilind said. "And Yanu didn't kill Lhospen. He only hid Cúven after the accident...which was a mistake, and he served his sentence."

Kili nodded. "A convict's mark is hard to bear."

"Yet marked or not, he is my love," Tuilind grinned now, reaching out to scratch a pony's ear. "As is the healer yours. It pleases us to see you have taken a wife." She smiled at him.

Kili raised his eyebrows and laughed. "Don't let Nÿr hear you say it that way. "Taking" would be a human tradition. In Erebor, the lassies do the Choosing…I, hand on heart." He demonstrated. "Count myself lucky."

"My apologies," Tuilind laughed, then sobered. "Yanu and I are grateful to you for letting us ride along." She said more quietly. "I hope we are of service."

Kili nodded. "I appreciate the guard help. This time tomorrow," he said, looking up at the sun's progress in the sky. "We'll be at our rendezvous…we'll hand this stuff over and turn back for home." He looked at Tuilind. "You should be safe to go on your way, wherever you're going."

But he noted that Tuilind didn't look completely consoled at the thought.

* * *

Fjalar, heir to the throne of Erebor, had fallen asleep on the floor in front of Old Bombur's bedroom hearth. On the stone floor.

On Erebor stone.

He woke with an odd dream vivid in his sleepy brain. He bolted upright up to check that his young brother and sister were still tucked in the old dwarf's bed, saw that they were sound asleep, and then rubbed his eyes.

The dream had left a lingering impression of urgency dominated by a strange sense of Great Uncle Thorin.

Bendin, one of Bombur's mining lad sons, moved aside a curtain in the doorway and looked in.

"Thought I heard you stirring," he said very quietly. He offered a cup of bark tea and Fjalar accepted it with murmured thanks.

"Bendin?" he asked. The miner, who seemed to Fjalar more like Bofur than his rotund father, cocked his head to listen.

"I had a crazy dream telling me to send help down to Uncle Thorin's tomb…" A voice from his dream echoed in his head. _Send help to them, lad. Now!_

"What for?" Bendin asked.

Behind him, the large bulk of Old Bombur shouldered his way in and the venerable oldster's eyes were sharp. "Lad's a Son of Durin, Ben."

Bendin looked up at his father, his expression puzzled.

"Mountain speaks to him." Bombur nodded toward the door as if to say _get going_. "Send some of the older lads down. Quickly, lad."

Bendin nodded, eyes wide, and slipped out of the chamber.

"Thank you," Fjalar said, getting to his feet. "How's my brother, Gunz?"

"No change." Bombur reached out and put a comforting hand on Fjalar's arm. "And you, laddie, have visitors," he said quietly. "Take a moment to drink your tea." He pointed to a wooden door. "Clean yourself up a bit."

Fjalar sipped the hot bark tea. "Who is it?"

"Councilor Gloin."

Fjalar stared, then swallowed. His gut suddenly felt hollow.

"My father is not dead." He set his jaw.

Old Bombur didn't answer. "I don't believe it either, to be honest. But he's not in the mountain, laddie, and the Mountain is breached."

Fjalar knew what his father had told him, should this moment ever come. _It falls to you to be Erebor's Prince. If people know you care about the Mountain, they will rally—you have to make sure they'll rise up to defend themselves._

He looked at the bed where Hannar and Iri slept, feeling suddenly and uncomfortably adult compared to their childish innocence.

Then he nodded to the old baker and did as Bombur asked. He cleaned up, shrugged into his cadet jacket, and finished his tea.

When he was ready, Bombur's hand on his back guided him to a brightly lit room full of serious dwarves, including a very somber Lord Gloin.

"My Prince," Gloin bowed. _"Hurum."_

Fjalar felt like he'd just taken a solid blow to the head in sparring practice. He automatically fell back on the courtly manners his uncle had drilled into him and he went to his knee before Lord Gloin, bowed his head, put his hand over his heart, and tried not to look as truly frightened as he felt.

The ceremony was quick and to the point. Words about temporary transfer of power, rule of law, Gloin as regent, and his own investiture as heir presumptive and Prince Regent.

Then he felt the touch of Gloin's firm hand on his head.

_"Nisherab, Anzurith _Fjalar_,"_ Gloin murmured. "Your kingdom needs you."

Echoes of _Aye_ murmured through the room.

Bombur's eyes were moist. "We are with you, laddie."

Fjalar was still trying to make his brain work when Bendin skidded through the door.

"The Queen. She's been found."

"Alive?" someone asked.

"Barely. She's not conscious. Her bodyguard is…" he glanced at Fjalar. "Dead."

* * *

**Translations**

**Elvish**

_tab-melin_ = forbidden lover

**Khuzdul** (Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary by the Dwarrow-scholar)

_Ukhbâb_ = forge of forges, or the greatest forge of all.

_Hurum_ = to honor (person), ie to bow for receiving honor.

_Nisherab, Anzurith _= stand, young (ruling) Prince


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Fili, King Under the Mountain, glared at his captors. Their leader was a tall Easterling of some noble rank if the extra decorations on his armor meant anything.

"No more demands," the tall man growled. "You forge my sword. Then you take child-son and leave."

Fili felt ice in his gut. "My son?" he said, his voice low and angry. "Where is he? Show me."

"No. Sword first."

Fili kept himself still. Bastard knew how to negotiate...and he'd just been trumped.

One of the others, an Easterling with a bare chin stepped up in an uncertain posture. "Lord Svarlam…" he began.

"No!" Svarlam sliced the air with his hand, cutting off the soldier's words with a quick exchange in a sharp language.

Fili's thoughts raced. _Is this about Gunz? _he wondered. In his head, that image again of an Easterling flinging Gunz against the wall, the lad falling limp to the floor. Fili couldn't remember what happened to him after that. _Mahal…_

His brain started running through the possibilities: _They have him hidden here somewhere; they don't really have him; they no longer have him; he's dying; he's no longer alive…_ He stopped that line of thought and struggled to recall what had happened during the attack, after Gunz had fallen to the floor…Fili remembered being swarmed by three or four Easterlings at once. He remembered being wrestled through the secret exit and taken down the long exit stairs (and wondered briefly what traitor had revealed that secret,) but he couldn't recall that anyone had brought Gunz.

And the painfully sore spot behind his right ear attested to the last thing he recalled: struggling to get free until things went black.

_They could have followed with Gunz and I just don't know...and An. What had happened to An?_

"Food and water," Lord Svarlam declared. "No bonds. You deliver magic sword."

Fili narrowed his eyes. Negotiations had definitely gone south.

"Arngrim." Lord Svarlam gestured to the bare-chinned one as a sack and a jug were brought in.

Arngrim took possession of the things, which Fili assumed were his food and water, and walked over to glare down at Fili, eyes full of distaste.

"You start now." He looked ready to kick him all the way to the cold forge in the cavern beyond, but Fili stood and easily dodged him, heading for the forge on his own.

_All right you bastards, _Fili thought, his anger seething inside him. _Let's see what I can find to run through your sorry guts._

* * *

Young Bard, King of Dale, narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose at the sight of the corpse that the city militia had dragged into his courtyard at dawn.

"Easterling," he said. "These bastards killed my Da…and they never travel alone." He met the grim expression of his militia commander. "Silent muster," he said. "Pass the word. And bring me the Ravenspeaker."

With that he turned back to his quarters. He would need his battle leathers, his vambraces and greaves, his bow, and his sword. In fact, he had a beautiful new sword, a recent gift from Erebor, and he'd been itching to use it anyway.

He was dressed for battle when he was called to the meeting room on the main floor of Dale's Embassy, a building directly adjacent to the Royal Villa.

"Duff," Bard nodded in greeting to the greybeard dwarf who was a distant cousin of Erebor's ruling King.

"My Lord," Duff bowed slightly, hand on heart.

"What news from Erebor?"

Duff looked concerned. "No news, lad. Right strange, that."

"No ravens?"

"Aye, there's ravens. They just don't have anything to say except that no one speaks in Erebor, and no one put food out on their ledge. They're ganging up on me, demanding nuts."

Bard raised his eyebrows. "No one put food out for them?" He scratched his chin. "In all your years ravenspeaking for Erebor, how many times has that happened?"

Duff looked blank. "Never. Not even during the siege."

"My militia brought me a dead Easterling this morning," Bard stated.

Duff paled. "So the battle gear..." he gestured. "Is not for a practice match, I take it."

Bard pressed his lips together. "No, lad. I hate Easterlings, Duff. They killed my Da."

"Aye, my Lord." Duff's expression was grim. "I'll send the Ravens 'round the mountain, off to the outposts."

"Take some young lads for message runners. In the meantime," Bard's face was set. "Dale prepares for war."

* * *

Fjalar, Son of King Fili, had two new titles: Heir Presumptive and Prince Regent. It meant he now ruled Erebor, a lad of 42, under the regency of Councilor Gloin…at least until either his Uncle Kili or his cousin Dwalin returned to the mountain.

And while Fjalar wanted his cousin and his uncle to be safe, what he really wanted was his father back.

His new status gained him two things, however. A little more freedom inside the mountain and a sudden lack of interference. "No" had suddenly been replaced with "Yes, lad."

And Fjalar knew exactly what he was going to do with that.

First of all, he secretly assigned his cadet class to the long stairs—the one stairway that led from the lowest levels of the mines to the highest part of the mountain. No one else knew that at the top, the only Ravenspeaker who was able to get messages in and out of the mountain was hard at work—his cousin Beka, Dwalin's daughter, a lass his own age.

"She needs supplies and help," he said to his classmate Broddi in a quick, private chat. "And we need more lads and lasses on the stairs to make the message relays faster. Make sure they're getting food and water, they're warm…all that." He put Broddi in charge of seeing it done. "And Brod?"

The young dwarf stared, wide-eyed.

"Make sure the adults don't know we're doing it. I've no idea yet who the traitors are, but there _are _traitor dwarves inside the mountain." Fjalar looked at him with a right decent Durin glower. "Talk to no one outside the cadets and miner trainees," he said. "Messages come and go from me and Beka only, got it?"

Broddi had nodded and dashed off to see it done.

Second, Fjalar demanded to see his mother.

He did it shortly after attending a brief council meeting where he and Gloin were briefed on life inside the mountain: most dwarves were going about their business, but there were still portions of the Mountain that were apparently off-limits, still reports of unfamiliar dwarves in ill-fitting uniforms, and both the main gate and the western terrace had been declared closed. Anyone who questioned the order was met with the unfamiliar dwarves.

"Hulgar from the Guard tells us he's off to nab a few of them," the miner Bórka reported. "Any luck and we'll have a few to talk to."

Gloin glared around the room. "We all know what the King would say to that. What's the status of the King's Hall? I can use the circle same as any Durin-blooded dwarf if we can secure the hall."

Bórka and the others had exchanged looks that Fjalar didn't completely understand.

"We're on it," Bórka said, and the room had cleared.

"We get a couple of those foreign dwarves, and we'll have answers out of them, lad," Gloin swore.

That was when Fjalar had made his demand.

"I want to see my mother," he said to his Regent.

To his surprise, no one told him no. In fact, Gloin concurred. "Yes, lad. Your father would do the same." He laid a hand on Fjalar's shoulder. "I'll take you up there myself. Give Bórka some time to put our plan in motion." Gloin patted his back and led the way out.

Huh. Fjalar followed, feeling rather astounded.

Leaving his young siblings Iri and Hannar with old Bombur, Fjalar and Gloin (with Bendin and a few miner lads tagging along as personal guard) took the little-known healer's corridors up to the Infirmary, and they were escorted quickly through the maze of wards and rooms to his mother's bedside.

They let him go in alone.

He hadn't really known what to expect, to be honest. But when he entered her private room, he was not prepared for what he saw.

He nearly didn't recognize the limp and pale dwarf tucked into the sick bed as his Mum. A heavy bandage crowned her head, and her wealth of dark hair was gathered to the side in a long tail. Marks on her face told the tale of rough treatment, and Fjalar felt himself flush with anger-filled helplessness at the sight.

His father would be furious—that someone had hurt her…had even touched her. _Mahal._ Fjalar could imagine his father with that stone-hard look in his eyes that meant heads would roll.

_Da should be here_, Fjalar fumed, reaching out to touch her still arm. _He'd know what to do. _Fjalar could do nothing except squeeze her hand, and never in his young life had she not returned the gesture.

She might have been simply asleep, except she was so still, grey, and bonelessly limp.

One of the physicians came in, his expression somber. He introduced himself as Master Physician Bergfinnur.

"Do you know what happened to her?" Fjalar asked.

"Your mother has only one real injury-a bad knock on the head, just behind her right ear." The Master gently cradled his mother's head, showed Fjalar the livid bruising at the base of her skull, behind the ear. He looked at Fjalar significantly. "Whoever did this knew the exact spot of greatest vulnerability on a dwarf skull."

"When will she wake up?" Fjalar asked.

The physician shook his head. "Hard to predict, lad. Could be any minute…could be weeks." He looked sober. "And you have to know," he said softly. "There's a chance she won't ever wake up. These things happen."

Fjalar blinked, unsure that he'd just heard that correctly.

"With this kind of head injury," the Master explained, "there's nothing we can really do beyond keeping them warm and safe. They stay unconscious until the brain is ready to wake up. It's different for every patient."

Feeling like he was in a fog, Fjalar nodded. "Where's my brother?" he asked after a moment.

The physician held a hand out to invite him into the next room.

Gunz was a small, sleeping figure in a big bed. He had one bandage on his forehead and his left arm was wrapped and rested inside a sling.

"This young fellow has been awake a little bit," the physician said, a gentle smile on his old face. "Fretting. We've dosed him with sleep herbs. He's been quite upset about your father and we need him to stay still. Two broken ribs on the left side and a badly bruised shoulder; quite possibly a cracked bone in the left forearm."

Fjalar reached out and pushed hair off Gunz's forehead. Bruising showed around the edges of the bandage. He and Gunz were old hands at getting banged up in play fights.

But this had not been a play fight.

"Just a cut and a good bruise on his forehead, there. He's a sturdy young lad; he will heal up just fine, I think. His injuries aren't as serious as your Lady Mother's. But," he said, holding up a finger for emphasis. "In the meantime, it's important to keep him quiet and still." After a moment, he put a comforting hand on Fjalar's arm and then left him there.

Fjalar knelt by his brother's bed, his knees weak. He'd seen the aftermath in the family's quarters. He realized now how close his mother and brother had come to being bloody corpses like the rest of them…and how brave his cousin had been to sneak the little ones out.

He rested his forehead on Gunz's arm, feeling him breathe. Outside the sick room, he heard the Master Physician speaking in a low voice, briefing Gloin.

A minute later, Gloin came in, eyes full of sympathy.

"They say the lad will be up and about in no time," he murmured, nodding toward little Gunz. "Sons of Durin…very tough lads, you are."

Fjalar nodded and stood. "My mother's not so lucky."

Gloin's brows came together and he looked at his feet. "I'm very sorry, Fjalar. It'll be Mahal's will, now."

Fjalar said nothing. That was little comfort.

"There are traitors in my father's kingdom, Lord Gloin," he said, his voice low and angry. "I want them out."

He looked up to meet the old dwarf's steady eyes. His Durin glower was back.

"Aye," Gloin said. "But you need to know who the rats are before you can eradicate the vermin."

Fjalar swallowed. "How do I do that?"

Gloin raised an eyebrow. "Circle of _Ahyrunu_, lad."

"Circle of what?"

"A certain magic the Mountain provides to those with the blood of Durin. Lucky for you, I know the secret and it's time you learned." Gloin winked at him, an odd wicked steel in his old eyes. "As soon as we hear that the King's Hall is secure, I will be more than happy, lad, to show you exactly how it's done."

* * *

Ravens were on the wing above the Western Outpost when it happened.

Two thousand heavily armored Easterlings erupted from the woods, having positioned themselves overnight, and with flaming arrows, set the hay and the wooden barracks afire.

In the ensuing melee, Lord Dwalin, Armsmaster of Erebor, led half the complement in a mighty counter-attack, decimating a third of the Easterlings before being set upon by an elite group of minor nobles who had easily identified him in the fray.

They surrounded him, slaughtered the guard, and chained the furious dwarf lord, gagging his mouth and binding his arms and feet in chain.

Seven of them tied their captive to the saddle of a fast horse, shrouding the dwarf lord in a dark robe. They spurred their horses away from the rout, heading for the shores of the Long Lake and the old diggings south of Erebor with their one prize of great worth.

The ravens had screamed their warnings, but in the end, could do no more against armored men except watch and bear witness.

And when their Ravenspeaker friend was covered in a raven-colored shroud and taken away, seven of them followed.

* * *

Kili, Prince of Erebor and brother to the King, sat his pony and watched three men dismount Rohan horses and approach on foot. They were in the center of a broad field, half a league from the woods, the vale of the Anduin ahead.

In other words, out in plain sight where they would see an ambush coming.

Kili had Skirfir and Vit on either side. Tuilind stood tall and quiet in the background, and Corax perched warily on the bare branch of a lone snag, watching with his head down and quorking now and then.

Following protocol, the three Rohirrim stopped twenty steps back and inclined their heads, hands on hearts.

Kili dismounted his pony, nodding to Skirfir and Vit to do the same. Together they walked toward the three horsemen.

"My Lords of Rohan," Kili said, hand on heart. "I am Kili, Prince of Erebor." He smiled at the tall, wheat-haired man in the middle. "Well met, King Éomer." He inclined his head.

The tall man answered with a smile and a stern bow. "Prince Kili." His voice was stern but not unfriendly.

Introductions of the others were quickly made, and Kili and Éomer clasped hands.

"My sister warned me," Éomer said with a crooked smile, "That you are nothing like your good cousin Gimli. I must say I agree with her."

Kili grinned. "I hope that's a good thing." He slipped a courier's case from his back. "Please convey my thanks to your lady sister for the compliment," he said, grinning. At the water's edge, a full Éored of riders lingered alongside a small flotilla of river boats. "I've a string of ponies eager to be rid of their load." Kili tipped a rolled parchment from the case. "So let's get this started." One of Éomer's men stepped forward to review the agreement, already signed by Fili and countersigned by the King Elessar. A copy had already been sent to Rohan, so the review was mostly a formality.

Still, it was good business to have the documents signed and proper before paying in gold. The agreement for mining and settlement rights was approved, King Éomer stepped forward to sign both copies, it was witnessed by Tuilind the Elf, and the formalities were done. Kili nodded to Skirfir, who mounted up and rode back for the ponies, and more importantly, the gold.

"Seems an inadequate trade," Éomer said to Kili as they watched the string of ponies make their way to the river boats on the bank.

Kili snorted. "Remember that when Gimli makes himself fat and wealthy from that mine."

Éomer smiled. "He earned that from us in battle. You are paying for something we would willingly give," he observed.

Kili said nothing. The lad clearly saw through the ruse of mining rights. There was no need to acknowledge it as the charity it was.

Be he saw Éomer's expression. It was not easy for such a warrior to accept help.

"A good King puts his people first," Kili murmured. "And good neighbors help him do it. Erebor is ever your ally."

Éomer bowed his head. "As Rohan is yours, my Lord."

The rest was small talk and the exchange of pleasantries. The King and his men, the dwarves, and the two elves of Kili's company accompanied the ponies all the way to the river, the amount of the gold was verified, and as ponies were unloaded, Kili distracted Rohan's young King by introducing him to Erebor's new princess, the Lady Nÿr.

He found it oddly amusing as Éomer stared, then stammered, completely taken with his first introduction to a Lady dwarf. The lad explained his surprise by telling her all about Gimli's outrageous descriptions of dwarf women.

"Really," Nÿr laughed. "Gimli exaggerated horribly."

It was at that point that Corax swooped in, screaming defensively.

Éomer's face went blank.

Kili stood, putting up an arm to make the bird settle. From the edge of the forest, he saw a small cloud of ravens heading noisily in their direction.

Corax kept screaming one word, over and over. _"__No! No! No!"_

Kili and Nÿr exchanged confused looks, not understanding.

Then a mob of ravens was circling, all of them screeching in urgent alarm. Kili strode away from the gathering, meeting the ravens on open ground.

_Attack! Attack inside the mountain! _

_King is taken! King is taken!  
_

_Red day! Red day!_

_Many dead! Traitors inside!  
_

_Easterlings attack! Easterlings attack! Dale, Mountain. Easterlings attack!_

Anger surged. Kili went still, questions struggling to form in his head.

_Easterlings._

"Enough!" Kili fended off the storm of swirling birds. "I'm on my way," he told them, and a few turned tail and headed back for the forest. Most leap frogged along the grassy soil, calling their distress.

"On my way!" he repeated, but he stood stock still, eyes riveted northeast, toward Erebor. _Traitors. They had breached the mountain. _

_His brother, taken._

It was unbelievable—yet ravens didn't lie.

_Taken where? Why?_ The birds didn't know, of course. And Kili wouldn't find the answers standing on the banks of the Anduin.

He needed to get home.

And then Skirfir and Vit were beside him.

"Easterlings," he said, his voice low and full of restrained fury. "Inside the mountain." He turned, his brain immediately assessing how to travel light and fast.

His eyes met those of Éomer, and the lad's expression said he smelled war. "You look like a dwarf with a problem."

Kili glowered, striving to control his anger. "Easterlings," he spat. He watched Éomer's lip curl.

"Where?"

"Erebor and Dale. On the attack." He turned to Skirfir. "You, me, the lads—ready the fastest ponies," Kili said. "We ride for Erebor." Skirfir turned and ran. Kili turned to follow.

"My Lord Prince," Éomer said.

Kili stopped and turned. He had no more time for niceties.

"Does Erebor require aid?"

Kili eyes were narrow, his voice tight. "I require dead Easterlings."

"My Éored would relish the fight." Éomer said, a deadly glint in his eye. "Give me a reason and we're with you."

"Another shipment, just like this one. One shipment, one Éored." Kili didn't care about the gold. They had plenty and he'd trade it all for his brother's life in a heartbeat.

Éomer's grin was wolfish now. "For another shipment, you can have five Éoreds."

Kili frowned, almost asking how there could be five.

Éomer pointed: one north, one west, two south. Plus the one here on the riverbank.

Of course.

"We came prepared for an ambush," Éomer said. "We've had rumors of Easterlings on the move. I think we just found out where they went."

"This is not your war," Kili said, shaking his head even as he imagined the help they would be.

"Easterlings are always our war," Éomer said, his voice firm and low. "They all but decimated the Wold, they over-ran Dale, allied with Mordor..." he nearly spat that last word. "They have caused Men enough grief, don't you agree?"

Kili glowered. "I agree completely."

Éomer turned and shouted, _"Rohirrim!"_ and Kili's heart leapt. Rohan's King looked back at him with a curt nod. "We can have you there at dawn, two days from now."

Kili returned the nod, and as Éomer strode off, he raised his arm for a raven, immediately finding four vying for the space.

"Fly fast to Erebor, fly to Dale," he said to them, unable to keep the anger from his voice. They flapped, picking up on his seething rage. "Tell them: Raven Prince comes with Rohan. Dawn." He calculated the day of the month quickly in his head. Today was the eighth of October. "On the tenth day." All four birds leapt into the sky, racing north and east.

Anger surged in his guts. He wanted to draw his sword and charge something _now_.

And he wanted his brother.

* * *

Arrangements were quickly settled as Rohan's Éoreds formed up, constituting a rather formidable fighting force. To a man, they were gleefully eager to ride for war against their long-time foes.

The gold and a prudent escort were quickly launched downriver. Anyone spying on them now would see the clamor of the Éoreds as the more significant action.

It was quickly agreed: Kili, Skirfir, and the six other Erebor guards would ride pillion with the Rohirrim back to the River Running. Tuilind and Yanu would keep the ponies, to be returned at a later date.

Kili and the dwarves stood apart, quickly sorting their goods between things necessary to take and things to leave with the ponies.

Kili looked finally at Nÿr, realizing she had made herself ready to ride.

"Not this time," he said to her. "I ride to war. It will be brutal and ruthless." His temper was on edge, but he tried to keep his voice calm.

She looked slightly confused, her beautiful face drawn in worry. "But…"

Kili shook his head. "What happened in the catacombs with the goblins will be nothing to this," he said, glowering to help make his point. Then he forced himself to soften his voice. "I want to know you are in a safe place and well protected." Where that would be, he wasn't sure.

Nÿr was quiet. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear and looked down. When she looked up again, her eyes were determined.

"I _can_ take care of myself," she said quietly. "I've been doing it my whole life."

Kili thrust his jaw forward, not accepting that. "When we married, your status as a Daughter of Durin became common knowledge," he said bluntly. "You are in danger because of who you are and because you married me." Not to mention that she carried their unborn child... He prayed Mahal would keep that secret a good while longer. "If our enemies see you anywhere near the field of battle, you would be a prize they could not resist." He could not even _think_ that she would try it. "Tell me you are smarter than that."

Tuilind stepped up, tall and confident behind Nÿr. "She can stay with us. Yanu and I are worth a dozen guards."

Kili glared. "You needed my protection just to cross Mirkwood," he said. "You have threats of your own to deal with."

Tuilind shrugged. "Lhainon is just a bully," she raised an eyebrow in challenge. "I can outwit him with my eyes closed."

Kili felt himself flush in anger at her flippant answer. His sword was in his hand and pointed at her before he realized it. "This is not a joke," he said. "To be taken lightly."

Yanu stepped between them, hand on heart. He bowed slightly. "We are sorry my lord," he murmured, glancing at Tuilind. "You are right. Completely right." He met Kili's eyes, and they regarded each other.

_This is an elf who understands loss,_ Kili thought. Maybe Yanu understood the stakes.

Tuilind went to one knee, her expression alarmed. "I apologize, Lord Prince."

Mahal, he was an ass when he was angry. Kili recognized it, but his inner rage was not interested in making nice. He just glared at her.

"By the spirit of my cousin Tauriel," Tuilind said, eyes down and hand on heart. "I would protect her with my life, Son of Durin."

"As would I," Yanu added. He stood like a soldier ready for duty.

Kili let his breath out and lowered his sword. The Rohirrim were milling close by, now. Ready to go. He looked from Nÿr to Tuilind.

"She is a ravenspeaker," he said, glaring at the elves. "And never underestimate Erebor ravens in the fury of a war-flock."

Tuilind and Yanu nodded, having the good sense not to speak.

Nÿr stepped toward him. "Kili," her voice was quiet. "I will be fine. I will stay with Tuilind and Yanu. We can make for Thranduil's hall. They know me there—I will be safe, love."

They looked at each other. Kili sheathed his sword and crossed the short distance between them in two steps, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

His mouth found hers with urgent need, her hand on his face, his arms pulling her tight against him, almost painfully tight. How could he let her go? If anything happened…

"I'll be fine," she said, pulling back and nuzzling his neck. "Think of Erebor and your brother," she said, looking up at him. Their eyes locked. "Find him and bring him home," she said. "And stay alive."

Kili had no words for the absolute faith he saw in her eyes. He blessed her loyalty, her understanding of his bond with his brother. Daughter of Durin.

He pulled her closer in another fierce hug. "I will come back to you…" he murmured.

Her fingers stopped his lips. "Don't promise…just do it."

He closed his eyes and touched foreheads with her, his lips finding hers for one last kiss, and this time it was gentle, loving and heart-achingly tender. _Nÿr…sweetheart._

"I apologize for being an ass."

She shook her head. "No. You need that anger to save Erebor."

Bless her. "I love you more than I can say," he whispered. "Be safe, love."

"I will," she murmured back. "I love you." Her hands framed his face and he could tell she was fighting back tears.

_Mahal. So brave._

"Take care of our little one," his voice broke a little as he said it.

"Always, love."

One last hug. His hand found hers and squeezed.

And then he turned for the Rohirrim and took a hand up to the back of a tall, mighty horse, settling behind a large, grim man.

He looked back at Nÿr.

Cousin of Tauriel or not, if anything happened to her, his _yâsithinh_, his _âzyungel_, he would rend Tuilind pointy ear from pointy ear.

* * *

From the Dwarrow Scholar's Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary (online)

_yâsithinh _= lady wife

_âzyungel_ = love of loves

* * *

****T**hanks again to** BlueRiverSteel **for her outstanding help as Beta reader! As always, drop me a note if you can, even if you've just discovered this story...your feedback keeps me writing!** Mahal's blessing... Summer****


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Kili, Prince of Erebor, rode pillion behind a tall rider of Rohan named Breodan.

"Watch out!" the rider called back to him.

Kili leaned left as the horse made a sharp turn, dirt flying under its hooves. He leaned forward as it leapt down a bank, and he moved as Breodan did when the horse flexed left and right in a high speed serpentine through massive trees.

He clenched his jaw to keep from biting his tongue, and just staying in his seat took alert concentration as all five Eored rode like a stampede down the Old Forest Road…a road that had just taken his little company of dwarves two days to cross with a slow-moving pack train of heavily-laden ponies. Now he was back-tracking in record time and hanging on with every ounce of his great strength.

It was late afternoon when the Eored slowed and milled about at a spring, riders exchanging information from scouts, dismounting to check hooves, and walking and watering horses.

Kili was handed down and he looked quickly for the other dwarves, spotting young Skirfir nearby, windblown but on his feet.

"All right, lad?" he asked.

Skirf nodded. "That was...wild." He walked with a slight stagger.

Kili knew the feeling, though he hoped he didn't look quite as unsteady as Skirf. The past few hours were a blur.

Overhead, ravens circled, having found the Eored. They flew low, quorking and calling. Kili looked up at them, and King Eomer's horsemen gave him silent regard as he walked far enough away to raise an arm and invite the ravens down to talk. The Rohirrim seemed suspicious of the ravens, but none of them questioned the usefulness of the information they brought and Kili's ability to hear it and interpret.

Skirfir went with him, his sword drawn and ready to defend his Prince and swordbrother in case of unexpected visitors. Vit and Vir appeared as well, taking up guard positions.

One raven flew in with a swoop. _Man like bear! From the west! _Then the bird immediately took wing again to draw Kili's eye to a trail from the northwest.

"Look sharp!" Kili called, raising an arm to alert the Rohirrim.

"Who is it?" Breodan called. "Friend or foe?"

"One person, alone. Let's hope for friend," Kili said, not quite believing the ravens description of _man like bear_ but knowing better than to discount them.

A small group of Rohirrim were quick to form a loose defense, wary. Eomer rode forward, though Kili held up a hand to keep them back.

He heard the stranger's footsteps, slow and purposeful.

Kili stood firm. Beside him, Skirfir gripped his sword in both hands, eyes wide.

"Steady, lad," Kili murmured._  
_

As they watched, a very tall, massive man with bushy auburn hair, a high forehead, and long straight nose strode forward.

"Friend," Kili said, signaling back to the Rohirrim, recognizing the man who approached. At least he hoped they could call him that.

The giant of a man stepped closer.

Kili stood firm. He knew this man's kind did not stand on ceremony, and he motioned for Skirfir to lower his blade.

The man stopped, towering above Kili and glaring down at him. "Who is this horde which rides at such speed down this old road?" the tall man asked gruffly.

"They are men of Rohan," Kili answered. "Riding to aid Erebor. There are Easterlings in the Vale and the Mountain."

The man glowered, but Kili simply looked up at him, keeping his expression open.

"Kin of Oakenshield…" the man named him.

"Kili." He inclined his head but knew better than to offer his service.

"Where are your ponies?" he demanded. "I saw you ride past yesterday, your ponies fat and healthy."

"They are with two elves and my Lady Wife, back at the river. The ravens brought us ill tidings. We ride to war."

The tall man nodded, then looked up to take in the number of the combined Eoreds.

"Many fine horses. And men."

"This is King Eomer of Rohan," Kili held a hand out to where Eomer sat his horse. "King Eomer, this is Grimbeorn, son of Beorn."

Eomer bowed his head, but said nothing.

"What will elves want with ponies?" Grimbeorn asked, apparently more interested in beasts than kings.

"They will look after them until it is safe to return to the Mountain."

Grimbeorn looked at him, his expression unreadable. "We don't like Easterlings."

"Neither do we."

"Your Lady Wife," Grimbeorn said, changing the subject. "The one with child?"

Kili blinked. How did…? Then he drew breath. Beornings were well known as sensitive to living beings; known for their careful husbandry of creatures. A sixth sense, perhaps.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "But that's best kept secret, for her safety."

"She is with friends?"

Kili frowned. Of a sort. Allies, anyway.

Grimbeorn, it seemed, understood without needing the explanation. "I will offer them sanctuary," he snorted. "Care for the ponies. For the dwarf-mother." He spoke the last words with a soft reverence.

Kili felt chagrin even as his heart lifted. "I am humbled by your offer. We would be in your debt..."

"No," Grimbeorn said. "Rather say it atones for the death of Oakenshield, whom we could not save on that terrible day."

Kili considered, then nodded. He knew the day Grimbeorn spoke of. Thorin, falling in battle, despite Beorn's help.

Grimbeorn looked from him to the mass of horsemen. "This I can do." He looked back at Kili and gestured to the men of Rohan. "While you fight Easterlings, you and the horse men."

"My thanks to you, Grimbeorn," Kili said. "She is a brave lass, but not for this kind of war. Tell her that you come by the last light of Durin's Day." He met the large man's eyes. "And give her my love."

"It is not winter," Grimbeorn scoffed. "This is a code you use?"

"Yes."

They regarded each other, the Beorning and the dwarf.

"This I will do for the kin of Oakenshield." With that, the tall man looked at the Rohirrim one last time, then turned and strode back into the forest.

Kili wracked his brain, wondering if he'd ever told Nÿr about Beorn and the Beornings and whether she'd be in for a complete shock when he appeared to her. Surely Tuilind and Yanu knew of Grimbeorn, though he never knew with elves.

"Is it true," Skirfir's voice was close by. "That his kind are skinchangers?"

Kili looked at him. "Yes. The man is large and cares for beasts," he said. "The bear is massive and unpredictable."

Skirfir stared at the woods where the man had gone. "You trust him?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "With Nÿr?"

Kili wasn't sure how to answer. After a moment he looked down, then at his young swordbrother. "Above all, Beornings revere life." He sighed. "I trust him more than most."

Skirfir looked skeptical, then guilty for having questioned his prince. He nodded.

"I appreciate your concern," he said to the lad. "I love that she is quite capable of taking care of herself...but I can't help worrying about her, lad."

Skirfir's eyes were serious, almost accusing. "You would not be worth her trust if you didn't."

In spite of everything, Kili smiled at him. Skirfir was young and just a little bit besotted with the new Princess of Erebor in his own way. Kili understood it and might have even caused it-using the lad as a go-between for half a year. Truth be told, Skirfir's accident in a rock fall had given Kili his chance to get the young healer lass's attention in the first place.

He patted his young protégé on the shoulder and took the time to call a raven, sending it back to Nÿr. _Trust the bear-man, Grimbeorn. Be safe, love. _As the strong young hen took to the sky, he gauged the angle of the sun and wondered if the message would reach his Lady Wife before dark.

_Fly fast and strong_, he said silently to the dark bird as it disappeared over the trees. _And Mahal help us._

And then they were remounting, the Riders of Rohan merging into long lines as they took the road and continued east.

To Kili, the second part of the ride was just as fast and breakneck as the first part. He stayed hunched behind Breodan and concentrated on moving with the horse, just hoping his gear would stay buckled together.

At twilight, the last ravens found them pounding down a wide, straight portion of road and they flew alongside him as if in a race.

"It's the last chance to ravenspeak before night," he shouted to Breodan. "They roost at sunset."

Breodan nodded and slowed, cantering aside into a small meadow. Most of the Eored charged on, a small guard, including King Eomer himself, stayed with Kili, circling to cool their horses.

Kili slid to the ground and was quick to stride a bit uphill, allowing the birds room to land and talk to him.

Years of ravenspeaking enabled him to sort the jumble of incoming information.

_Dale musters. Gates are closed._

_No one speaks for Erebor but Mountain Lassie at the top of stairs. _

_Grey haired miner tracks the King. _

Bofur. Kili let his breath out. That was a heartening piece of news.

But it was followed by disaster.

_Western outpost burns._

_Many guard lie dead._

When Kili heard this, his expression turned hard as stone.

_Nut Head taken. They take him south. We follow._

Eomer rode close, concern on his face.

"The Western Outpost burns," Kili said.

Eomer's eyes hardened and his mouth pressed tight. "Losses?"

Kili matched the expression with his darkest Durin glower. He knew who the ravens named Nut Head. "Too many. My cousin Dwalin…taken prisoner, the ravens tell me."

Eomer looked grim. "Ever the Easterlings strike without honor." He and Kili regarded each other, silently agreeing that no Easterling would survive this transgression. Then Eomer nodded once, turning and raising an arm to his warriors. "Ride on!"

Kili clenched his jaw and grabbed the hand that Breodan offered, letting the strong warrior pull him up.

They sped on for another hour, until the twilight deepened and the trail became too risky in the dark. Breodan slowed his mount as the Eoreds spilled over a series of rocky embankments and splashed across a shallow stream into a wide meadow.

The Rohirrim made quick work of setting up a bare-bones camp in the tall grass, allowing the horses to graze at will. Kili found Skirfir again, and before long stood with the two hill brothers and the other four dwarves of their group.

"We will take our share of the watch," Kili said to Eomer when the King approached them.

Eomer regarded the mass of Rohirrim around them.

"That is a welcome offer," he said, inclining his head toward them. "We are all taking one hour each. You are welcome to join us." He nodded to the green banner where the watch commander would be. "We ride at sunrise, and Mahal willing, our blades see battle soon. Rest while you can, lads."

* * *

Beka, daughter of Dwalin and first year trainee in the Erebor Guard, had taken two steps back and clutched a rock when the ravens had delivered the news about the Western Outpost.

Her father had been there. He was captured. Taken by Easterlings. Warriors slain defending him, his great figure bent by chains on his hands.

They had stripped him of his axes.

_Who?_ She had seethed. Easterlings, yes, but who helped them do this?

The ravens had taken her question as a command.

They passed the word, and the next morning when they flew over Ravenhill, unfamiliar dwarves threw stones at them.

Erebor's ravens were not pleased. They called to each other, starting to circle. The foreign dwarves were baited and threw more stones, shouting at them. Ravens flew closer, taunting them.

_Go away! You are not our dwarves! Go! Go!_

It finally happened: they struck a raven. One of the old hens, out of flight trim and in her last season, took a stone to the head and dropped from the sky.

A foreign dwarf raised his hands in triumph, striding forward to lift his prize kill by the feet and shake her limp body at them.

Anger hardened the eye of every bird in the flock. No Erebor dwarf would harm a raven. Rock throwers were not Erebor dwarves. Rock throwers were prey.

The foreign dwarf did not know what it meant when the ravens began circling like a black-winged cyclone. He stared up at them, laughing with his kill in his hand, crying out his derision and defiance.

At some point, his fellows backed off, unsettled by the birds' behavior.

The raven named Klaak, a well experienced warrior, waited until the rock-thrower was separated away, the other dwarves having fled in dismay, and then he started the war-cry.

_Attack! Attack! Attack!_

Well over two hundred ravens descended on the foreign dwarf like arrows falling from the sky, sharp beaks striking him, pecking and rending flesh, leathers, shirt...

The foreign dwarf dropped the dead hen and covered his head with his arms, then fell to the round, curled around himself.

The ravens finished him off.

He was already dead when Klaak landed in the fray, scattering the angry mob of ravens who'd been driven by their fury.

In Klaak's mind, he felt he was flying high in triumph, but in reality he was on the ground, jockeying for position against the rest of the angry flock, his feet angrily trodding the carcass of his enemy, unable to resist hard, striking pecks at the bad dwarf's throwing hand. _Rock thrower. Hen killer._

The bad dwarf was bloody meat, repeated pecks separating leathers from buckles, skin from sinew and bone.

A white, shiny symbol caught his beady eye, and Klaak stopped long enough to angle his head for a closer look, flapping and hopping to fend off his fellows while he looked.

A mark on the dwarf's arm, underside of his arm, below the elbow… what was now a flap of skin surrounded by bloody meat. It was not dark markings like those on Nut Head, the ravenspeaker with no hair, it was a light marking.

But Klaak knew what sigils were. Raven Prince's sigil…which was different than King's sigil…different than One Eye's sigil…he could beak them, feel the design, see the differences.

This was no one's sigil.

_Sign of the traitors!_ He screamed. _Sign of the traitors!_

Klaak ripped the shiny mark from the remnants of the dead arm and clamped the bit of skin tight in his beak, leaping into the sky and taking wing, rising high above the war flock's furious decimation of the rock thrower's body. His wings beat strongly as he took to the sky, aiming for a particular place high up on the mountain.

_Mountain Lassie…Mountain Lassie…sign of the traitors!_

When he made it the mountain top, he found Mountain Lassie, cold and shivering in the early morning light, holding her arm to him.

He landed silently, offering the flap of skin.

Her eyes were wide when she took it.

"Easterling?" she asked.

"Skin of dwarf. Hen killer. Hen killer dwarf."

Mountain Lassie looked sick. "This came from a traitor dwarf? One who killed a raven?"

"Yes, yes. Hen killer. Rock thrower." Then he flapped, almost unable to stay perched in his anger. He crouched into nest-defense position and screamed before looking her in the eye. "War flock peck and strike. Peck and strike. Bloody dwarf." He reached down, nibbling the inside of her arm, just below the elbow. "Sign of the traitors. Here. Sign." He nibbled again. "Sign of the traitors."

Mountain Lassie looked taken aback. "This tattoo…they wear it here?" She rubbed the place on her arm where he'd been nibbling.

"Yes, yes. Here. Sign of the traitors."

"The flock attacked a foreign dwarf who killed a hen?"

"Yes, yes."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes, yes."

"And you found this white mark on his arm?"

"Yes, yes."

"Where was the dwarf, Klaak? At the western outpost?"

Klaak ruffled his feathers. "Ravenhill."

"Ravenhill," Mountain Lassie repeated. "Good bird. Fierce bird. Thank the war flock. Tell them Mountain Lassie thanks them. Great flock."

Klaak bowed his head. Yes, he would tell them, he would tell them now. He launched himself with a cry of triumph and flew high, exhilarating in the open air, ready to fly fast down the mountain and ride the morning currents.

Beka watched Klaak the raven soar away, a jumble of feelings in her heart. She scanned the sky, didn't see signs of more ravens, and turned for the threshold back inside the Mountain.

"Mieth!" Her cousin's close friend stood with his cloak wrapped tightly around himself in front of their little fire, but he looked up at her call.

"What is it?"

"Take this down yourself," Beka said, showing him the scrap of flesh. "Straight to Fjalar. No one else."

Mieth took it. "What is it?"

"Piece of skin," she said. "From the inner forearm of a traitor dwarf." She touched her own forearm, just below the elbow. "This is their sign. The ravens think they are all marked with it."

Mieth looked at it with distaste. "So if Fjalar finds dwarves with this…" he struggled for the best word. "White tattoo," he decided. "He'll have found the traitors?"

Beka nodded.

Mieth looked at her. "How did the ravens discover this?" he asked as if he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

She told him. "You heard Skirfir tell about the war-flock attacking the spider at the Pinnacles?"

Mieth nodded.

"Sounded pretty much the same," she said in a low voice. They looked at each other. Erebor's ravens could be goofy, pesty, messy, and loud, but few knew how deadly they could be. As a flock, they were perfectly capable of killing in defense of the Mountain.

"Go all the way down the stairs yourself. Talk to Fjalar alone," Beka said. She quickly briefed him on everything else she knew, even though some of it had already been sent down in short, coded messages. "He'll ask a million questions, if I know him. So you better be ready to answer."

"Ravens have tracked where they took my Da," she said, her voice bravely steady. "And they've sighted Bofur not far from there. It's the eastern ridge, south of Esgaroth." She took a scrap of paper and drew a quick map. "This isn't accurate, but maybe he can check it against charts in the King's study. The ravens say there's a cave opening up here," she drew an X.

"That's their hideout?"

Beka gave him a scathing look. "Hideout? They're not children, Mieth." She rolled her eyes. "I don't know what it is, but the ravens think the King is here, they think my Da's being taken there too, and they tell me Bofur is not far from it."

Mieth nodded.

And that's when the second raven of the morning swooped overhead, diving at the thin smoke from their campfire.

"Raven Prince! Raven Prince comes!"

"Kili!" Beka breathed, leaping up to stand clear of the rocks and raise her hand to the incoming bird.

And finally she heard some news that gave her hope.

"Last message," she said to Mieth as the raven flew for the nuts and seed strewn on the rock below their camp. "Kili's turned around and he rides for the River Running south of the Lake."

Mieth pumped a fist. "Yes!"

"And the best part…he says _Raven Prince comes with Rohan. Dawn. On the tenth day."_

"Today's the ninth," Mieth said, his face blank in surprise. "He means _tomorrow!_"

"Yes," Beka nodded. She picked up the rough map she'd sketched and thrust it at Mieth. "Go! All the way to Fjalar—tell no one else anything. Do you understand?"

Mieth's face flushed in excitement. "Absolutely, yes. I totally understand," he said, charging for the top of the stairway.

Then he stopped, pulled the fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and turned back to hand it to her.

"Take it," he said. "I won't need it…you will." He shoved the extra cloak at Beka, who took it in a jumble. They looked at each other. They were unlikely friends, Dwalin's daughter and the burly son of smiths…but they were firmly united in two things: support of Fjalar, King's heir, friend and cousin; and protection of Erebor, home of the Sons of Durin.

Mieth nodded to her, then dashed for the stairs.

Beka sighed. What was it she'd heard her cousin Kili say about the chubby lads on the stairs? _Might be slow going up, but with all that momentum, the hefty lads are hell on two feet going downhill ._

Beka clutched the extra cloak, her hands soaking up the warmth left from Mieth's body heat.

_Be hell on two feet, Mieth,_ she said silently. _And I hope it's enough, Da. I hope it's enough._

* * *

Fili, King of Erebor, stood shirtless and bootless in a place he didn't know.

But he stood in front of a dwarven-made forge, ages old, and what to do with a forge was one thing he did know.

Coal, kindling, and flint: he had what he needed to get a fire going in the box, and he could do that, no matter how long the furnace had been cold.

And there was the anvil. He touched it as he limped to the workbench. There. A hammer. He lifted it, gripping it in his hand, wiping dust away. To his left, tongs and pokers.

All good.

Fili snorted. His captors had brought him here and made a demand: make a magic sword. A Tyrfing sword.

_They're dumb enough to give me a forge...I'll certainly make a sword,_ Fili fumed. It wouldn't be exactly what this Lord Svarlam expected, but so be it. The bastard would deserve what he got.

Fili spent a few minutes cleaning out the old grate, then with a bucket of anthracite coal and his tongs, laid a nest of coal, leaving a well in the center, just as he'd been taught as a lad. He assembled shavings, small sticks, and bits of a used torch, and found an old but usable chunk of firelighter just where a true dwarf smith would have left it...he took a moment to bless whoever that long dead smith had been, and in moments dropped a flaming chunk the size of a small stone into the kindling.

He added shavings with a well-practiced eye, watched them light, and then smiled grimly as the tell-tale ghost flame shot up, a sign that the gasses from the anthracite had caught fire.

He carefully added larger pieces of wood, and as the fire took, added more coal, slowly covering the kindling. His little fire went from flickering to volcano before he knew it, and he stood back, feeling a blazing warmth for the first time since he'd awakened here. It was smoky and smelly, but he watched the dark fumes rise, satisfied that there was enough draft in this cavern to draw the air and fire the forge.

By the time his coals were blazing red hot, he'd cleaned and readied the hammer, anvil, tongs, and pokers, and he'd laid out crucibles and cleaned the sand pit.

He set one long poker with a good length in the fire as a temperature gauge. When that metal turned bright red, he would know that his coal was hot enough to smelt ore.

Until then, he stood and concentrated on what he was about to do.

_Mahal, father of all fathers, bless these hands, this fire, the forge and steel. Let me strike the hammer on the anvil as we will strike our enemies with our swords. _He let his consciousness reach into the stone beneath his feet. The core of Erebor was far away, but he could sense it. It would respond to him..._  
_

But before he was ready to work, he heard his captors returning.

"Take your hands off me!" someone shouted.

Fili turned, eyes wide. He knew that voice!

"Turn and fight, you stinking orc-offal!"

The double doors into the cavern burst open, and a small sortie of six large Easterlings struggled in with a snarling, kicking dwarf, shrouded in dark cloth but cursing as loud as he could in Khuzdul.

_Dwalin! _ Fili would recognize that voice anywhere. How in the name of Mahal had they gotten Dwalin?

It took all six large Easterlings to wrestle the warrior dwarf forward, and when they stripped away the dark cloth, Dwalin, bloody and shirtless, sprang at them with the energy of a lad a quarter of his age.

"I'll punch you bloody and tear out your guts..." he raged.

The Easterlings didn't wait. They ganged up on him with their fists and Fili winced, having been recently introduced to that particular method for subduing a prisoner. He sported the cuts and bruises to prove it.

Six against one. Unfair.

Fili spun and grabbed the bright hot poker from the fire and turned on the six Easterlings. He charged in, swinging the fiery metal like it was a broadsword, slashing through trousers to burn and cut the sinew of the men's thighs and calves.

The first two toppled backwards, screaming their agony at the searing pain of the hot metal.

Two more made the mistake of drawing long knives, quickly batted away when the flaming hot poker slammed against unguarded hands.

One of the long knives made it into Dwalin's hand and together, the cousins slashed and burned their way into scattering the Easterlings.

The men fled out the door, dragging themselves back the way they came. When Dwalin roared and made to charge after them, Fili intervened, using his whole body to hold the larger, older dwarf back.

"No! Dwalin! I need you here!" Fili said sharply, trying to make sure Dwalin heard him through his rage. "Let them go."

"They burned the western outpost!" Dwalin roared. "I want their heads on a stake and their guts flung to the winds!"

"I know!" Fili shouted back at him. "I know, so do I! Gunz, Dwalin. Did they say anything about Gunz?"

Dwalin's mouth shut and while he pushed against Fili, he finally looked at him: a moment of confusion and shock registering on his angry face.

"They say they have him here," Fili said. He held Dwalin's gaze and his voice softened. "But I don't believe it...tell me what you know."

Dwalin shook his head. "No, lad. They only have you. The ravens..." he blinked. "Ravens say the kids are all in the Mountain..."

Dwalin stepped back, anger replaced by sympathy. "And Gunz...he lies still. They say he's not awakened."

Fili couldn't breathe. Lying Easterlings...they didn't have Gunz captive, no matter what they said. He would kill a hundred himself as soon as he had a real blade in his hands.

"They hurt my son, Dwalin," Fili glowered. "A lad. He's just a child." Fili struggled with his emotions, breathing hard. "I want them dead."

Dwalin's eyes narrowed. "Aye, lad." Then he seemed to take in the cooling poker, the forge, and the coal fire.

"This is their price," Fili said, motioning toward the old forge with an angry gesture. "They want a magic sword."

"And you mean to forge them one?" Dwalin asked, almost accusing.

"I mean to make a Tyrfing blade," Fili spat.

The two cousins looked at each other, and Dwalin's eyes went wide.

"That's a tricky spell," Dwalin acknowledged. "Can go wrong in a hundred horrible, unintended ways."

Fili's expression was stony. "I intend for it to go wrong only for the Easterlings."

Dwalin's expression showed his shock. "What you propose is...not done," he said.

"Will you stop me?"

Dwalin didn't answer. After a long moment he shook his head. "No lad. Count on me to help you."

* * *

****Please take a moment to review or PM if you can-your feedback keeps me going on this story and I can't tell you how valuable and appreciated it is. **There are more scenes and chapters already in the hopper, so hope to get back to posting more often. I will be at two large conventions this summer—ALA/Vegas (some of you may know what that is!) and ComicCon/San Diego. If anyone reading this will also be there—send me a PM and maybe there's a meetup possibility! **Mahal's Blessings! Summer**  
**


	11. Chapter 11

****Whew, **May was certainly busy! Should be able to get the next few chapters out more quickly over the next couple of weeks as things are a little quieter for me. Thanks for reading...translations and reference notes at the end! ** Thanks so much for your patience...and now for some major Fili mojo. -Summer****

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Fili, King of Erebor, worked with focus and endurance alongside his venerable older cousin, Lord Dwalin. They stood before the hot furnace of an old forge and worked diligently through all the time-honored steps necessary to forge a sword.

To dwarves, it was sacred work, and they labored in the heat and firelight for many hours. But without the sun for a reference, neither dwarf really marked the passing of time, not knowing or caring that they had worked through the night and into the early morning hours.

It was well after sunrise when they paused. They had the sword's soft steel core laid out on the stone worktable. Cooling beside it, a hammered length of the harder steel that would be wrapped around it to form the blade's outer jacket and the sharp cutting edge.

"You still intend to turn this into a Tyrfing blade?" Dwalin asked after drinking from their nearly empty water skin. He handed it to his cousin.

"I do," Fili said, his expression stone hard under the sweat and dirt. "But it will not work for Svarlam the way he wants." Fili took the waterskin and drank.

The two cousins looked at each other.

"Aye," Dwalin acknowledged. He clenched his jaw and nodded once. "We'll need a bit of mithril," he said. "Before you merge those pieces and finish that blade."

Fili nodded, setting the waterskin aside. "I still have my ring," his fingers grabbed hold of the plain mithril ring on the third finger of his left hand.

"Your wedding ring? No. Use mine." Dwalin pulled a ring from his little finger, given long ago by his honored swordbrother, Thorin Oakenshield. He slipped it free and held it out at the same time that Fili's ring came free.

They stared at each other again. Two mithril rings, both tied to love and loyalty and family.

"We'll use them both," Fili said.

Dwalin didn't argue. So be it.

Fili went back to work and set about using a wire brush to clean the smallest crucible. Together, they worked the ancient forge again, Dwalin pumping the old bellows, Fili stoking the fire until it roared bright orange. He took up the tongs, thrusting the empty crucible into the heat, then pulling it out to let it cool, brushing away the impurities of dusty time.

When he deemed it forge-ready, he dropped both rings inside. "We'll need white flame to melt mithril," Fili said.

"I'm on it," Dwalin said, stoking the coals and working the fan bellows until the fire became a deafening inferno of the hottest fire possible.

Fili tonged the crucible into the furnace, and with his feet firmly on clean Erebor stone, he took up a low throated chant in Khuzdul.

_I will not speak of your sins, fell ruler of Easterlings who seeks to break the line of Durin. I have put the stone below my feet…below my heart…Mahal's hammer in my hand…your choices now seal your fate and the fate of your house._

Fili watched the two rings, worn for years by two Sons of Durin, as they heated and melted, turning from cool solid silver to molten red liquid…and then he nodded to Dwalin to allow the fire to cool a bit.

With the sword core and steel jacket aligned on the workbench, Fili took up the tongs and pulled the crucible from the furnace, his focus intense as he poured a thin stream of mithril along the length of the core. The molten metal sputtered and popped as it fused itself to the softer steel.

Then he stepped back and poured the last third of mithril into a shallow indentation in the stone at his feet, forming a small circle the size of a coin. He handed off the tongs and crucible to Dwalin and knelt over the place where mithril met Erebor stone. Placing his bare hands on either side of the little cooling pool of metal, Fili bowed his head, closed his eyes, and chanted again, calling for the mithril to tap the ancient magic of Erebor.

_Fili, melhekh Erebor, zabirakhajimuhazu Mahal, atrêv khebeb tur sanzigil balakhel. Umkhûh adadin, mukhuh sanzigil umkhûh kurdu Erebor. _

When he was done, Fili opened his eyes, watching the spot of mithril cool and change from fiery red back to bright silver.

He sat up, then accepted Dwalin's hand to help him stand. Silent, he took up the ancient hammer and without words, Dwalin lent his assistance. They both knew what to do at a forge, after all, and Fili's hammer-strokes rang into the cavernous room with a practiced rhythm, finishing the final process of heating and cooling, hammering the two pieces together until they formed a solid, straight blade with mithril melded deep inside.

And while he forged, Fili, Heir of Durin, kept his feet on the stone floor, kept his intentions and purpose firmly in his mind. There was a secret to forging this kind of spell and a single truth about mithril magic: it relied on a willing heart and the purest, strongest emotions of the one who called it.

And Fili had that. He wanted this spell to work in defense of his people and his family, and he had so much emotion to put into it…he drew it from a lifetime of pain…from every failing, every heartbreak…_his father, dead before his time. His mother, never whole again. His brother wounded and fevered. Thorin falling, slain in battle. Kili's despair and suffering from a morgul curse. Balin killed at the gate of Moria. Oin and Ori lost. A child, born after Fjalar, who never drew breath. Dain slaughtered at the gates of Erebor. Nama gutted. Gunz hitting the wall and falling limp to the floor. His Lady wife, brutally left for dead.  
_

He pounded the steel with all of that in his heart, and then the metals were one: soft and hard steel, common iron, magical mithril. And then Fili reached with his mind into the mountain's core for more strength and power.

Fili slowed the hammer, readying himself for the last few strikes, adding a bit of softer gold into the hilt as Svarlam requested.

_I know that I am weak, O stone of Erebor. _Clang.

_And I am humble before you. _Clang.

_I seek only that given to Durin's heir._ Clang

_To defend and protect the line of Durin…_ Clang.

_Aglâbish, Mahal, nâtel Tyrfingel ni Svarlam-hu zagar. _

Clang_._

Fili stilled the hammer. Dwalin held his breath.

Erebor answered its King with a low rumble that shook the old forge where they worked, shook the Mountain, shook Dale and Esgaroth, and shook the Woodland Realm.

In Erebor, young Fjalar looked up from the droning of a council meeting to gut-level knowledge that his father was alive and that Erebor's King was after justice. Fjalar sat very still, his mind reeling with the sudden need to act. _My father is alive_, coupled with _he will need his swords_, and resulting in _I have to get out of here_. He stood and curtly excused himself.

On the heights, Dwalin's daughter Beka grabbed hold of a boulder as the ravens around her took to the skies in surprise at the sudden shaking. Beka's eyes went wide at the overwhelming sense of power that emanated from the very stone. She'd never felt such a thing before. _Erebor!_ She turned her tired face into the wind, brisk and from the east. _Da…!_

And in the back ward of Erebor's extensive infirmary, Gunz, a half-grown young lad with a set of broken bones and a patchwork of bruises, woke and sat up, ignoring the sharp pain in his side as he cried out, "Da!" Embur, grand-daughter of old Bombur and healer trainee, rushed in to find him wide-eyed with tears on his face. "Da!" he cried again, his young voice in a panic.

"Hush, lad," she soothed him. His Lady Mother lay in the room next door, limp and senseless.

"My Da!" he insisted. He pointed south and east with his good hand, then his young face went still, his body shaking. He was feeling the intense power of Erebor, but he couldn't explain it to her. He just knew in his guts that his father was touching the Mountain and the Mountain was angry.

It made the young lad frightened and relieved all at the same time, but the feelings were so _strong_.

Across the valley of the River Running in the shadows of the Old Forest, Kili, brother to the King, felt something he couldn't name and turned his head sharply, looking to the distant line of the Highland Ridge on the far horizon. Something certain settled in his heart: the unerring knowledge that his brother was _there_, and he felt the definite call of Erebor even from this place still some distance away. He grabbed the arm of the strong Rider of Rohan behind whom he sat, and he pointed east toward the ridgeline. He would ride for a week if it brought him to Fili and found him alive.

And then he wanted 50 dead Easterlings from each one of these fierce men of Rohan, knowing full well they would be all too happy to provide them.

Away north, in the Vale of Anduin, Lady Nÿr, daughter of Durin in the early stages of pregnancy, missed her new husband terribly. She lay alone but snug in a straw bed, safe inside the cozy farm home of Grimbeorn of the Beornings. A pair of odd elves guarded her rest and the rest of their exhausted ponies.

She felt the faint rumble even from the far side of Mirkwood and she sat up, senses telling her it was the Mountain and it meant the Mountain was fighting back.

Her heart leapt with the call, then froze with the fear that her beloved would soon be back at Erebor, that he would be in danger, and that he would gladly give his life to protect his brother and his people. She recalled his voice, his words at their parting: _I will come back to you… _And the sight of him grasping the hand of a rider and leaping up to the back of a warhorse twice his height. Her hand went to her lower stomach, even though the child within was too tiny for her to feel. Would their child ever know his father? She hoped so with all her heart. _My love…be safe… _

And inside the old forge called _Ukhbâb, _Dwalin's approval shone in his steely eyes. Thorin's sister son was calling the ancient magic with all the strength of Durin reborn in his heart. Thorin would be proud. The mountain would serve Fili's will and need, no doubt.

Fili, taking the still-warm sword in both hands, let the blade's tip touch the now cooled coin-sized circle of mithril in the stone at his feet.

He closed his eyes, reached for the power of Erebor's ancient magic, and chanted one last time.

_"Here I, Fili, King of Erebor, sister-son of Thorin of the line of Durin, pronounce the Easterling Svarlam Cursed with the fate of Tyrfing for the crime of harming a Child of Durin, of trespassing against the Mountain, and of waging war upon its people. _

_"Sword of Tyrfing: Kill no dwarf. Kill no ally of dwarves. Kill no innocent woman or child._

_"But for now and for three thousand deaths…He who draws this sword for gain draws the Curse of Tyrfing upon himself and calls the rage of Durin upon his house._

_"He will be unable to let go the sword without the blood of his own on the blade…and ever will another warrior take the sword and slay him in return, and thereby draw the Curse of Tyrfing anew and call the rage of Durin upon his house, and be unable to let go the sword without the blood of his own on the blade…and ever will another warrior take the sword and slay him in return, and thereby draw the Curse of Tyrfing anew…until three thousand are dead and the Easterlings return to their lands beyond Mordor, never to return."_

Fili stopped, eyes staring into space, his grip firm on the newly forged sword. A moment later, the Mountain rumbled again, this time with a great sideways jolt and violent shaking.

And in Fili's hands, the new-forged sword changed—it's bright new metal gleamed like fire.

Tyrfing sword. Curse-bearer. A gift for the bastard Easterlings from the Sons of Durin.

As requested.

The quaking continued long enough to topple rock and rattle stone before it stopped, shook one more time, then ceased.

Dwalin had just enough time to gain his footing and take three steps forward, wrapping his arms around his royal cousin as Fili went limp, gleaming blade still gripped tight in his hands.

* * *

Fjalar, first son of King Fili and Prince Regent of Erebor, had ditched his Guard escort and now trotted quickly down one of the little-used healer stairways, his friend and trusted confidant Mieth at this side.

"I need to get out of the mountain, Mieth. Get Broddi and talk to the mine apprentices and the healer lads—between them, I'm betting there's a secret way out that the Guard doesn't know about."

Mieth nodded.

"But be careful," he said. "Bofur's back." The two cadets looked at each other, understanding perfectly. Bofur was trustworthy, sure. The mining master was one of the King's oldest friends. But he was also wily enough to catch them before they could count to ten and Fjalar didn't want to be caught.

"What happened with the council?" Mieth asked.

Fjalar summed up his morning. Mieth had wakened him with a raft of news from his cousin Beka, stationed as his secret Ravenspeaker on the heights. It had included a grisly bit of dried skin with a tell-tale silvery tattoo.

And then his Regent, Lord Gloin, had called for his presence in the King's Hall.

He told Mieth about the chilling developments there.

Bofur had returned, bringing an Easterling who was brought, hands bound, before the council in his father's audience hall. A captive, Bofur explained, who'd just been given a good swig of Bofur's favorite truth-brew, a strong liqueur called redbane.

The Easterling had coughed up the name of a young low-ranking guard dwarf inside Erebor, and that dwarf had been routed out of his quarters and forced to his knees in the middle of an unusual mithril pattern etched into the floor. It was called the Circle of Ahyrunu, a special bit of Erebor magic that Lord Gloin had shown him just the night before.

Now Fjalar had seen it in use.

"Tell us who you are, who you serve," Lord Gloin had glowered. "And where in Mahal's kingdoms you're from." He held a long silvery rod of mithril in his hands, the point firmly held so it touched the mithril in the floor.

Fjalar had seen light sparking across the pattern, proof of the ancient spell that compelled the foreign dwarf to speak truth.

The foreign dwarf had struggled against something Fjalar couldn't see, holding his breath, clenching his eyes shut.

"Gah!" he'd gasped, his head tilted back, his muscles tensed as if hoping to break his bonds and charge at Lord Gloin. "I come from the east." He'd gasped for air, as if the admission pained him. "From the dark lands. In halls of red-gold, Sindri's bloodline lives," he spat, as if he wanted to hold back the words but couldn't. "I serve Haugspor of the line of Sindri, King of the Ironfists."

Fjalar had looked at Lord Gloin, his eyebrows up in surprise. He knew the histories…Sindri was the seventh father, formed from stone by Aulë along with Durin, the first father. He had no idea Sons of Sindri remained. They were thought extinct.

"We do not fraternize with _elves_," the odd dwarf went on with disdain in his voice. "We do not accept the House of _Durin_, allied with _elves _and _elf-friendly_ men. We stand with the Easterlings, who return to fight again. You are not worthy of Aulë's gifts or places in the Halls of Mandos."

Fjalar felt his face heat. The Sons of Durin were _most_ worthy. They lived the most noble precepts of Aulë: loyalty, honor, and a willing heart. There was nothing _more_ worthy of a dwarf.

Lord Gloin had snorted at the dwarf's claim. "It was Lord Pátrin who signed Gondor's treaty on behalf of the Ironfists," Gloin stated. "Pátrin rules in Thelór's Halls, not Haugspor."

"Pátrin is a puny Stonefoot," the dwarf had sneered. "He sits on our throne without a drop of true Sindri blood for ten generations. Haugspor is the true Son of Sindri. Haugspor is the rightful King."

"So you take your anger out on Erebor?" Gloin had shaken his head and huffed his opinion of that misguided logic. "You will find Erebor highly ungrateful for that, laddie. Tell me how you gained access to the mountain."

The foreign dwarf had twisted and his face contracted into another sneer. There was much struggling before he let his breath out. "Iron Hills folk. Living here now. We hold their kin back in Stonehelm's settlements. Some refused," he'd said with distaste. "Some we tortured. We left their bodies in the abandoned copper diggings."

"And the ones who didn't refuse?"

"I wasn't stupid enough to learn their names." The foreign dwarf had glared.

Fjalar had decided to put his one piece of fresh information to use.

"Tell us about that mark on your arm," he'd demanded, touching his own forearm to show where he meant. He could see the mark on this dwarf from where he stood: a light, silvery-white tattoo, just like the one on the grisly scrap of skin that Mieth had delivered. He knew what the ravens called it. The traitor's mark. _Let's call this my own test of the Circle's magic_, he'd thought.

Again, the odd dwarf had cringed and seemed to wrestle with his own thoughts.

"Lord Svarlam's sigil. He leads Haugspor's legion…his cousin."

"Do all the traitors inside Erebor bear this mark?" Fjalar had asked.

The odd dwarf had flung his head back, then leaned forward. "No!" he shouted.

The mithril circle responded by sparking with white light and the dwarf's mouth had opened in silent agony. He had spoken a lie.

"Yes!" he spat. The sparking had stopped and the dwarf collapsed forward, catching his breath. He'd told the truth this time.

"You can't lie to the Circle of Ahyrunu," Gloin had growled. "So stop trying and tell the lad what you know."

"Yes," the dwarf had said, sounding more desperate. "We all bear this mark. It's how we know each other without knowing names."

"How many of you?" Fjalar had asked.

The dwarf had started to shake his head, winced, then spoke again. "No more than forty. All in the lower ranks of the guard and trades." He had laughed then. "Lowest of the low…so easy to keep your head down and obey. Easy to volunteer for extra work, easy to be just another lad in the ranks, easy to pick up on secrets we shouldn't know."

Lord Gloin glowered, then lifted the rod from the floor. The prisoner had closed his eyes with relief.

"Keep him locked in the lower dungeons under closest watch," Lord Gloin had ordered Bofur's miner lads. With that, he'd turned and strode for the King's Chamber and called for the council.

* * *

"I don't understand," Mieth said as they navigated a twisting turn and then started down another staircase. "They're doing this because of elves?"

Fjalar's eyes narrowed. "The council was having quite a discussion about that, just before that earthquake," he said. "I think the Ironfist prisoner really believes that. But my Da would tell me there's always more to the story with something this serious. Other wrongs, other issues."

Mieth nodded. "So what are they?"

Fjalar took a breath, as if nervous about stating his own opinion. "I think this: the Ironfists were not shy about supporting Mordor and Mordor has fallen. They've taken up with Easterlings and neither side fights for free. They still want what Mordor promised them before it fell."

"Are you saying," Mieth stated. "That they think Sauron would have given them Erebor…and they still want it?"

"That's my thinking," Fjalar said. At least Mieth wasn't laughing at him.

"Bofur have any other news?" Mieth asked.

Fjalar nodded. "Says he knows where my father is."

"Alive?" Mieth asked, clearly hopeful.

Fjalar shook his head. "He couldn't say—but I know what I felt from that tremor. My Da's alive and he's on the warpath, Mieth. I feel it." He stopped at the bottom of a flight of stairs, putting a fist to his chest to show that he felt it in his heart. "The council is going to take forever to agree on a course of action," said. "I intend to use that as cover. Beka's information says that Dale's on the move."

Mieth nodded. They started down the next flight of steps, voices quiet so they couldn't be overheard. "Ravens say there are still Easterlings near the Western Outpost. Beka's heard from Duf—Bard has his militia out."

"Yes," Fjalar siad. "And we just need to direct him to the horde on his doorstep."

Mieth drew in a sharp breath. "That's why you want out? Tell me you're not about to do something stupid."

Fjalar scowled at him. "Not stupid. What the Mountain wants me to do," he said.

Mieth frowned. "And what's that?"

"Defend it. I'm getting my father's swords and taking them to him." They made it to the bottom of the stairs. "Go back up to Beka, Mieth. Take this to her." He pulled a much folded map from his side pocket and unfolded it. "It's a map from my father's study," he said, meaning it was accurate. He pointed to a marking on the southern end of the east ridge. "This is an old diggings, abandoned since before the dragon years. This is where Bofur says they have him."

Mieth noted the location.

"I'm going to offer my services to Bard as ravenspeaker in battle. This means he can leave Duf stationed in Dale. I will send ravens up to Beka," Fjalar said. "Kili and the Rohirrim are on the way," he said, "But I dared not tell the Council. We still don't really know who's safe and who's a traitor." He thrust his jaw forward in disgust. "My uncle will not come home to an ambush...not if I can help it."

Mieth nodded. "I've told no one but you," he swore.

"I think Bard will know what to do," Fjalar went on. "I'm hoping we can trap the Easterlings between somehow."

They nodded their agreement and folded up the map. Mieth tucked it inside his vest. The look on his face said he was not happy about climbing the Mountain again after having just come down. It was a four-hour climb on stone stairways, straight up, from the lowest levels up to the heights.

"And I have another job for the cadet lads."

Mieth looked up to see Fjalar dangling that grisly bit of dwarf skin at him.

"Traitor hunt?"

Fjalar smiled. "While I work on the problem outside the Mountain, I'm betting our fellow cadets can work on the one inside."

Mieth's grin turned feral.

Fjalar looked at his friend. "The dwarf we questioned said there were about forty of them…all in the lower ranks of the guard and the crafts." Fjalar and Mieth shook their heads. They were, technically, in the lower ranks themselves.

"Gives us all a bad name," Mieth grumbled.

"Glad to see you understand my feelings on the matter," Fjalar replied.

* * *

********Please take a moment to review or PM if you can-your feedback keeps me going on this story and I can't tell you how valuable and appreciated it is. Thanks to all...!  
**

**Translations not included in the text (From the Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary online)**

_Fili, melhekh Erebor, zabirakhajimuhazu , Mahal, atrêv khebeb tur sanzigil balakhel. Umkhûh adadin, mukhuh sanzigil umkhûh kurdu Erebor = _I, Fili King of Erebor, ask you to grant me, Mahal, the skill to forge through mithril magic. Use this mithril to tap the heart of Erebor.

_Aglâbish, Mahal, nâtel Tyrfingel ni Svarlam-hu zagar = _I speak, Mahal, the fate of Tyrfing into Svarlam's sword.

**A/N:** I cannot claim creation of The Ironfists, Line of Sindri or the concept of the Tyrfing Blade and its curse—I'm just employing these elements in the story. The details about the Ironfists and the Sindri come from gaming/role playing sites like the Tolkien Gateway, One Wiki to Rule the All, and merp wikia dot com.

The concept of the Tyrfing Blade, however, comes from the same source JRRT used when writing his works: the text of historic Poetic Edda itself, from the Old Norse. (See Tyrfing in Wikipedia for a fairly good overview.) This may be the earliest occurance of the dwarf Durin anywhere in mythology...and the story cites that the dwarves Durin and Dvalin were captured and forced to forge a magic sword...and they cursed it instead. So I'm just playing out that curse from legend into a new context, with Fili as the heir of Durin standing in with Dwalin. (Kinda fun, actually.)

Finally, the forging details come mostly from Japanese sword forging techniques, from a variety of sources on YouTube and from GoogleBooks.

Google can uncover these sites and references if, like me, you are nerdy enough to spend hours researching them **;D ****


	12. Chapter 12

****Happy midweek, all! **I'm happy to post this chapter today, and expect the next one up on Saturday or Sunday. :-) Reveiw or PM when you can... Huge thanks to all.******

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Kili, son of Durin, Prince of Erebor, and brother to the King, no longer cared if his backside ached and his legs cramped. They had remounted their horses just before sunrise and he rode once again behind the tall warrior named Breodan, and they rode for ruin: a stampede of rough-and-ready Rohirrim with stamina and strength unmatched.

Kili and six other dwarves rode with them, just as bent on blood and justice from the bastard Easterlings as the Rohirrim were.

As the sun peeked over the eastern ridge, they left the Old Forest Road and turned north, pounding past the place where he'd met Tuilind and Yanu. Another few minutes and they'd be back at the clearing where his caravan had camped on their second night. Kili noted this, but he hunkered behind Breodan in a near trance, just hanging on and moving with his rider.

He looked up in alarm when Breodan suddenly slowed his horse and turned aside from the path.

"Lord Kili!" He heard Eomer's voice.

Kili blinked himself to alertness, looking sharply around Breodan to see a mass of ravens ahead.

Clearly, Rohan's King was reluctant to ride past them.

And then Breodan was riding forward, the horseman carrying Skirfir right behind.

Eomer had already dismounted and he stood expectantly, removing his riding gloves.

Breodan didn't need to be asked in order to offer Kili a hand down.

"My Lord," Kili greeted Eomer, walking over to join him, only slightly unsteady on his feet.

"These birds, these," Eomer looked at the raucous flock. "Ravens…they seem to be wanting to tell us something."

"Yes, my Lord," Kili said, scanning the treetops with concern. There were more than usual, and he wondered if they were really all Erebor ravens or whether strange, Old Forest birds had joined in.

"I've never known a raven to do anything other than steal bits of tack," Eomer observed. "Yet the dwarves of Erebor seem to have tamed them."

"Not all dwarves," Kili murmured, focusing on the birds, looking for Corax among them. "Just some of us. Corax!" he called, spotting his friend by his size and the way he stood—dominant and at the ready. The large corvid launched himself, crowing as if to warn off all other birds.

Corax landed on Kili's arm, flapping angrily as Kili crooned to calm him. "What's this all about? Just tell me," he murmured, stroking the feathers on Corax's chest. The agitated bird pulled away, then returned for more strokes.

"Dale on the march. Ravens from Dale bear news. Secret news. Won't say, won't say."

So that's what had the Erebor birds angry. Some of these were Dale birds, sworn to say nothing but to him.

"Will they talk to me, Corax? Shall I ask? You can stay and listen."

Corax responded with a very loud quork and squawk that made Kili grimace a little. "Haaak, Haaak," he called. "Haaak can speak for Dale." He put his head down, clearly unwilling to vacate.

"Give me a hand," Kili said to Eomer. "Raise your arm to him."

Eomer complied.

Kili crooned to Corax. "Royal friend. His name is Eomer. Like Aragorn…he is a special friend. Would you perch with him? You can hear Haaak that way."

Corax stood tall again, very imperious. He considered the tall man, eyed the leather-gauntleted arm that was offered, and hopped over.

"His name is Corax," Kili told Eomer, who looked half surprised, half amused. Kili shrugged. "He's a bit testy. Give him a polite greeting and he'll settle."

Corax pinned Eomer with a beady eye as if waiting.

"Well met, Corax," Eomer said politely. "I am Eomer, King of Rohan, and I'm much impressed with you. Would that Rohan had ravens as smart as you are."

Kili smiled. Lad of Rohan wasn't so shy about conversing with a bird. He should have known. Eomer had grown up communicating with horses, after all.

"Very nice, Corax," Kili praised him. "Can you call Haaak for me, then?"

Corax put his head down and looked at Eomer as if providing a warning, then raised up and called loudly for the Dale raven. "Haaak! Haaak!"

Eomer looked startled at how loud Corax sounded up close, but he was smiling.

"Good lad," Kili encouraged him, and Haaak swooped, backwinged, feinted a beak-strike at Corax, then landed, panting.

"Easy, fellow," Kili said to him. "Calmly now. We are friends here. Even Corax there, jealous bird that he is."

Haaak ruffled, glanced with annoyance at Corax, who crouched low and possessive on Eomer's arm.

"Dale moves to slaughter enemy." Haaak ducked. "Between the gate and the western outpost. Two thousand. Soon to die."

"When? What time did Dale attack?"

"Sunrise, from the east. Chawrak knows more." Haaak glanced at Corax with what Kili interpreted as a rather scathing look, then launched himself to a treetop.

Kili recapped Haaak's words for Eomer as the raven Chawrak took the place on Kili's arm. This raven bobbed his head politely at Corax, as if greeting royalty.

"Speak," Corax quorked, clearly mollified by Chawrak's deference.

"Dale strikes at dawn."

"Dale strikes at dawn," Kili repeated. "You mean dawn today?" Kili struggled to sort the time and distance involved. "They struck at dawn this morning?" That meant that Dale was likely engaging the enemy right now.

The ravens cocked their eyes at him. Clearly, they were good at delivering messages, but not equipped to interpret them.

Kili re-thought how to ask. "Peas sent this message yesterday? You flew from Dale, roosted in the woods, and found me this morning?"

"Dale strikes at dawn."

"All right, good bird. I understand," Kili launched the bird skyward. "As you can see, there are limitations," he said to Eomer.

"But you understand them well," Eomer said, passing Corax back to him. "Like a practiced rider who understands his horse."

Kili smiled. "Yes. Very much so." He raised his arm and spoke to several more ravens, sent a few away to reconnoiter the immediate area, and then sent Corax off to Nÿr.

"Will Bard prevail?" Eomer asked when he was done.

"Against two thousand Easterlings?" Kili raised his eyebrows. "Bard's militia is more than twice that and the lad hates Easterlings with a passion." He frowned at Eomer. "They killed his father in the siege. He's not forgotten."

Eomer nodded. "We lost many that year."

Kili nodded. Eomer had lost his uncle. Kili looked away. He had nearly lost his brother…and by Mahal he wouldn't let it happen now, either.

Together, the King and the Prince crouched and picked up sticks to outline the field of war ahead.

Kili drew an outline of the long lake. "Erebor, Dale, Woodland Realm, Esgaroth…" he marked from the top of the lake down the western shore. Then he blocked the shape of Mirkwood. Along the lake's eastern shore he drew the ridgeline of the eastern range. "My sense from the ravens is that there's an old diggings here," he marked a point on the east ridge, just south of the lake. "And that's where they hold my brother."

Together, they discussed troop locations and strengths.

"With these ravens you can send messages to Dale and Erebor?"

Kili nodded. "Simple ones. It's a good six hour fly from here up to the Mountain. They stop wherever they are at nightfall and roost, though." He looked up at the sky, gauging how long before noon. "If we send ravens now and urge them to fly fast… the messages will get back to the mountain by sunset."

"Good," Eomer said. "Here's my idea. Tell me what you think…"

Kili watched him sketching battle lines, adding a few details. "It's good," he approved after seeing the whole plan. "I can just add one extra piece." He raised an arm and a strong hen in her prime landed on his arm.

"Fly to the Woodland Realm," he instructed. "Find one of the Guard's elk." The Raven's eyes brightened. She obviously thought this interesting. "Warn them about Easterlings along the Forest River. Tell them _shoot to kill_." The hen looked to the sky, then took off.

"Good," Eomer said. "That will cut off a means of escape."

Kili nodded. It would also protect their flank. Quickly, he sent off several more ravens, duplicating the messages back to Mountain Lassie and Peas...in case any one bird didn't make it.

"Council!" Eomer called his captains to him to review their plan.

Kili saw Skirfir, Vir and Vit, and the other dwarves of his group already standing together.

"Dale engaged the enemy at dawn," he told them. "And here's our plan…" He explained as simply as he could.

He was rewarded with a wicked grin from Vit. "Beautiful," he said. "Chase 'em right into our arms." Vir chuckled along with his brother. They both made pincer motions, enjoying the thought of falling on the enemy from two sides as the Easterlings were chased down the valley.

A cry of "Rohirrim!" went up from the captains, and the dwarves touched fists with each other, quickly splitting up to find their riders and remount.

Kili settled himself behind Breodan once again. _Hang on, Fili,_ he thought. With any luck, he'd find him by nightfall.

* * *

Fjalar, Prince Regent and Son of King Fili of Erebor, could not believe the summons when it came.

It was Lord Gloin who delivered the message, nearly catching Fjalar in the act of directing his secret army of cadets. He did get caught with his father's battle sheath strapped to his back, the twin hilts plainly visible.

"To the infirmary, lad," the old dwarf said, his voice low and gentle. "Quickly."

"My mother?" Fjalar had asked.

A nod. A hand on his shoulder. The swords were ignored.

Fjalar had taken off, leaving the oldsters behind. He climbed the back way, swords bumping against his back, Bendin the miner at his heels. When he arrived in the healer's halls, people made way. Assistants pulled back trays of instruments, trainees pulled their patients to the side, and Fjalar was given room to race through the corridors until he was in the ward where his mother lay.

They had let Gunz out of his bed, and the lad sat on a low chair resting his head near her left arm. Fjalar saw tears on his little brother's face.

His mother lay still, eyes open…but strangely unseeing.

Was she…?

"Ma?" he said.

His mother's brows twitched, as if recognizing his voice.

Gunz looked up at him, wiping tears off his face with his good hand. "She can't see us, F'lar," Gunz's voice wavered.

Fjalar went to his brother, kneeling next to him and pulling him close. The younger lad's shoulders went limp in dejection and he ducked his head against Fjalar's arm.

The physician was there, then. "She's awake," he said softly. "She can hear us…but your brother is right, she is unable to see anything. We've seen movement from her left hand, but not her right."

Fjalar blinked, not really understanding.

"Like old Sáimun," Gunz said.

_No,_ Fjalar thought. Old Sáimun was a battle captain who'd suffered a brain storm…couldn't walk or talk anymore. He'd taught them to swim one summer before he'd gotten sick. Now he needed a nurse just to eat and stay clean.

It was no way to live.

He swallowed and looked up at the physician, who held a hand toward the door, inviting him out to talk in the hallway. Bendin went with him.

"What does this mean? Is she waking up?" Fjalar asked.

The physician shook his head. "There's no way to really know, lad. I've seen this happen right before they die: a few hours of lucidity before it ends; I've also seen this be as much recovery as they get, and they go on to live several more years without change."

"Have you seen them get better? Do they ever get better?"

The physician looked grave. "Not," he said. "That I've ever seen."

"Iri and Hannar," Fjalar looked at Bendin, who stood wide eyed in the hallway. "They should be here. In case…" he couldn't quite say it. "In case it's the last time she's awake."

Bendin looked at him with a sad expression. He opened his mouth as if to ask if such small children should brought to see their mother like this, but a moment later he closed his mouth and nodded. He vanished down the hall.

Fjalar nodded to the physician, thanking him. He went back to his mother's bedside, shared a worried look with Gunz, and reached out to touch her left hand. Cold, but not entirely lifeless.

Her fingers twitched, but they didn't wrap around his.

The physician had followed him in, stepping quietly, his expression serious.

"What do we do?" Fjalar whispered. It seemed like they should do...something.

"We'll just keep her comfortable," the physician murmured, but his eyes were sympathetic and he stroked Lady An's arm. "Talk to her, if you can. Let her hear your voices. Tell her how much you love her…tell her what you love most about her. Sometimes they hear us and start to respond better."

Fjalar's vision was going all blurry…how could he…?

Gunz didn't have to be told twice. "I love you, mama," he said. "And I love your laugh and when you sing to us. I hurt my arm, but it's better, I think."

Fjalar looked away, hot tears spilling onto his face. He dashed them away. He wanted to say the same, but somehow his voice wouldn't cooperate. All he could think of was his father…his Da should be here. The physician put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed gently, and left the room.

Fjalar let his breath out in a sputter that wasn't quite a sob. Gunz looked up at him, red eyed and puffy faced. He expected Fjalar to take his turn.

"Ma," Fjalar managed, still holding her hand. "I'm sorry for arguing with you so much. I wish I could take it back." He wiped tears from his face and wanted to curse. He shook his head and started again. "Beka told me that you protected the little ones. That you held your ground so they could get away." He stopped, took a breath, then swallowed. "I want you to know how brave that was. That it worked. Iri and Hannar…they're safe. They've been with Bombur…though they might get fat eating all his pastries," he let his breath out in a half-chuckle, then sniffed. "Beka even got Gunz out. He's right here…he's on the mend." He looked at her still features, wondering if she really could hear him, whether her hand would move again. "Gunz and me…we're here with you."

But there was nothing. No movement. He looked at her wide, unseeing eyes and waved a hand in front of them.

No reaction.

"Da…I wish Da was here," he said, wondering if she knew. "They took him. But he's alive and we know where he is. We'll get him back. You have to know how much he loves you…" She moved her hand at that, a definite flex, even if didn't last. "I love you, too," he murmured. He reached up and pushed the lank hair from her forehead, kissing her on the brow. "Please get better. Please come back to us." He stood back. "I have Da's swords," he told her, clenching his teeth. "I'm going to take them to him…and I'll help him lay every enemy flat for a hundred leagues around Erebor because they did this to you..." He stopped, unable to go on, anger heating his face.

Gunz looked up at him, eyes round and solemn. Then the younger lad looked at his arm still in its sling, and his expression said that he was wondering what he could offer. "They're not gonna let me go with F'lar," he said to her. "But when Da gets back, I'll hug him. I can hug him for you. I'll make sure his buckles are straight…" Gunz was well versed in his mother's last minute wardrobe check when his father flew through the family quarters. "And I can sing for you when he plays his fiddle…"

And then Bendin was back, Bofur and Bombur right behind, and Iri and Hannar were there.

Iri would have nothing but to climb up on her mother's bed and rest her head against her shoulder.

Fjalar felt the breath leave his chest. Iri didn't understand why their Ma didn't hug her back and hold her close. He reached out and moved his mother's arm, resting the limp hand on Iri's back. He held it there, making sure it didn't just fall away. He hoped his mother could feel it.

He thought she might have moved her head a little to the right, a little toward Iri. But he wasn't sure.

Hannar, predictably, just looked. He sidled up to Gunz, bit his lip, and asked quietly why Ma was sleeping with her eyes open.

"She just needs to," Gunz replied.

Fjalar didn't correct him. What was the point?

Bofur came to her side and touched her forehead.

"There's a blessing, children, that we say for warriors," he said gently. "I'll teach it to you."

Fjalar felt numb, unable to believe this was really happening...

"When our kin are wounded in battle," Bofur went on, "We honor the sacrifice. It goes like this. Say it after me…"

The boys nodded. Iri stayed where she was.

"We ask you Mahal, as Lady An's beloved children," Bofur said. The children repeated.

"To guard our mother's spirit while she rests…" They repeated again. Iri looked up at Fjalar, eyes wide.

"And bring her once again to hearth and home." They said the last line.

Iri's lip quivered and Fjalar lifted his sister. Usually fussy, Iri was strangely silent. She gripped a handful of his shirt and hid her face.

Fjalar looked back at his mother's unseeing eyes. He understood now where his father's stonefaced fury came from. It came from knowing that things were unfair. That good people were harmed because of things bad people did. That no matter how much you loved someone, you couldn't protect them from everything.

With a certainty he felt in his heart, Fjalar knew he had to act.

He handed Iri to old Bombur. "Take care of them," he said. "Until I bring my father back." And still carrying his father's swords in their battle sheath, Fjalar left his mother's sickbed and headed for the healer's stairs.

He did not go back down to the miner's levels.

He did not even head for the training halls, where he knew the fourth and fifth year cadets were busy with their plans to scour the ranks and catch the traitors.

He headed for the place on the seventh level where the stairs that led to the highest point crossed a corridor…he would take the stairs up from there and Mahal willing, arrive at the heights before noon.

He would tell Beka himself that his mother might never see again, that she would never be the same. He would tell her that it wasn't her fault, that she'd done exactly what Lady An wanted and expected. That she'd been brave to do it.

And then he would start down the mountain. There were trails down from the heights, trails that traitors couldn't know. Trails that a strong lad could take with some speed, especially if he had ravens for lookouts and company.

With any luck, he'd be in Dale by sundown.

* * *

****A/N Thanks for reading!** As always, please drop a note and let me know you're out there!

I have an extra HUGE thank you for **BlueRiverSteel.** Blue was good enough to exchange all the pros and cons about developments with Lady An...I confess that I wasn't sure if she was going to make it...but here we are! **Fistbump for Blue!****


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Fili, King under the Mountain and captive of Lord Svarlam the Easterling, felt completely drained of energy and he had no idea how he'd ended up on the ground with his cousin's arms around him.

"That was something," he mumbled, trying to sit up.

Dwalin glowered.

Fili propped himself up, felt Dwalin's strong hands on his shoulders, and waited for his head to clear. He'd never felt the Mountain grab hold of him quite like that before. Then again, he'd never tried such a powerful mithril spell.

"You need more water," Dwalin's voice said in his ear. "Take the last swallow," he said, handing their nearly empty waterskin to him.

Fili roused himself enough to drink. He breathed deeply, focusing his eyes on the fire in the old forge.

"If that didn't do it," he said to Dwalin. "I don't know what would."

"Aye. Mahal's mercy, lad."

Fili took the hand Dwalin offered and got back to his feet. Together, he and Dwalin took up the sword and checked the blade: its hardness, its balance, its edge. When they laid it flat on the workbench, it lined up dead straight. It was a basic weapon. Fili did not have the time, nor did he care, to design an outstanding combat sword. No. This was a simple, broad-fullered blade, with a straight guard and a basic pommel. He did not bother to wrap the grip, and indeed, had no leather with which to do it.

It didn't take long for the two Sons of Durin to fashion a basic scabbard. Fili took the last remnants of mithril from the crucible and added the few drops to the sheath, spelling the thing to work with the sword.

He held it, closed his eyes, and focused his waning energy one last time.

_Mahal, have mercy on your servant. What I unleash upon our enemy is done in defense of your people, the house of Durin, and the great mountain of Erebor._

"Not for gain," he said aloud. "But for an end to this threat."

Next to him, Dwalin nodded his approval. He handed the newly forged sword to Fili, and Erebor's captive King drove it into the scabbard, sheathing it firmly; the clack of the guard resounding in the cavern that was their prison.

He bent to one last task, then. He knocked free the coin-sized spot of mithril embedded in the stone floor, and nodding to Dwalin for fire, dropped the metal into the smallest crucible and tonged it back inside the forge.

When the mithril became molten once again, Fili poured it into the sand pit in long, flat line. It cooled, he hammered, and he quenched it. Working quickly, he cut the thin bar into two pieces and formed two rings, thinner and plainer than the two originals, but in the end, both he and Dwalin replaced the rings they'd sacrificed with new, simpler bands.

And then he was done.

Fili set down the ancient hammer he'd borrowed from this odd old forge and let himself rest.

* * *

Kili, Prince of Erebor, sat pillion on a tall Rohirrim horse. They had reached the southern end of the Long Lake, the place where the River Running ran shallow across a broad gravelly ford.

Kili, Skirfir, and one of Eomer's five Eoreds of warriors would head east from here, to the place Kili had identified as his brother's location.

Ravens and scouts alike had reported the same: scant Easterlings in the area. Three mine entrances, few horses.

Nothing one Eored couldn't handle on its own, Eomer declared.

Kili had agreed.

The other four Eored were proceeding on to a place further up the eastern shore where the Easterlings who fled Dale's forces in the North would be funneled in for an ambush.

Kili and his Eored would join them there, if they could. It left Eomer's forces without a ravenspeaker, but it was no matter for the Rohirrim, who generally fought without anyway.

Raising his hand to the hundred-odd ravens who had massed in the sky around him, Kili pointed them east.

"Show me where he is," he murmured.

The Erebor ravens understood. They winged east, following the upslope of the foothills toward a jagged ridge.

* * *

Bard, King of Dale, swung his newly-acquired Erebor sword with great satisfaction. He was smiling for the first time in hours, finally seeing the enemy on the run.

He had ridden all the way to the Erebor's Western Outpost.

Or what was left of it. It was nothing but a smoking hulk of charcoal, corpses, and wounded.

He'd been more than happy to rout the scavenging enemy off the burning remnants and into the woods.

It had become a running battle, with the coward Easterlings dropping their spoils and running for cover.

They fought hard for the first hour, but as Dale divided their lines and pushed them further apart, they slaughtered them in bits and pieces.

Now the Easterlings were half the fighting force they'd been at the outset, and the survivors were making tracks for the eastern road.

Exactly where Bard wanted them to go.

* * *

Beka, young daughter of Dwalin and first year trainee, was tired. She'd been camped out on Erebor's highest lookout for three days and she was cold. She was also hungry for real, warm food.

And she was wracked with guilt and sadness.

_I could have tried pulling Lady An after me once I had Gunz on my back. I should have tried. _

_I wish I was stronger, taller like my Da. _

She wished she could follow her cousin Fjalar down the narrow trails to Dale.

"You must stay here and handle the ravens," he'd told her, after explaining his intentions. "I can't trust anyone else, Beka. I trust you." He'd looked at one of the large ravens nearby as if to consult, and when the sleek hen bowed and bobbed, he'd handed something over to Beka. A badge in the shape of a bird in black onyx.

The sigil of a confirmed Ravenspeaker. She'd turned it over in her mittened hand. She should have earned this in a test and ceremony yesterday morning. Instead she was here.

"You've more than proved your skill," Fjalar had said. "If I can do nothing else as Prince Regent, I do this. I confirm you Mountain Lassie, Ravenspeaker of Erebor." He'd reached a hand out, so like his father, and pulled her close. "Our fathers will both be proud of you."

She was embarrassed by his faith in her. He'd grinned. "Bit of legend, you are," he said. "Battlefield promotion." He'd quirked an eyebrow, knowing she'd like the designation.

She'd held the badge and given him a hand on heart bow. He was her cousin…and she'd just now realized he would also be her King.

"Thank you, my Lord Prince," she'd said. "I am at your service."

Now alone again, she could only regret not having done more for Lady An. She'd not known her own mother…a warrior lass who'd born her as an unwed mother, without having told the dwarf who'd fathered her.

Beka didn't fully understand motherhood. She only knew that Lady An loved her children and loved the King. That they all somehow just belonged together.

And Beka would do anything for her cousin, the King. For Fili. He'd tricked her step-brother and Thorin Stonehelm into letting her go…enabling her to leave the repressive life of a girl in the Iron Hills for the protections and freedoms of an Erebor lass.

She would never leave this mountain. She knew it. The ravens knew it. She was Mountain Lassie and this was her home, now and forever, heart and soul.

Here, she was an honored rarity. A Ravenspeaker and one of only three Daughters of Durin: herself, her little cousin Iri, and the Lady…or Princess now…Nÿr, Lady Wife of the King's brother, Kili.

Beka frowned. Would that she could talk to Lady Nÿr…her older cousin was a healer, just finishing her training.

And just like Beka knew the secret of Nÿr's study, she knew the secret of how her Lady Cousin had cured her father of a life-threatening tumor.

_Could that not help them again?_

There was a mithril room hidden in the old back halls of the infirmary, secured by a mithril doorknob that would only open for someone with the blood of Durin in their veins. It was called The Ward of _Vustîn._

The floor in that room was etched with a mithril pattern, ready for the touch of one with Durin's blood.

Could Nÿr use the mithril room to heal the Queen?

Beka didn't know. She looked up, a glimmer of hope in her young eyes. She scanned the skies for a raven, smiling when one came to her.

"Fly to my cousin Nÿr in the Beorning's land. Tell her this: please return, Lady An near death. Need your skill in The Ward of _Vustîn."_

The raven pinned her with a steady eye, "Yes, yes," it muttered. "Hen-hen. Hen-hen."

It launched itself into the mountain air, caught a thermal, and soared down the slope, heading toward the distant line of the Misty Mountains, far to the west.

"Safe travels, raven friend," Beka murmured. "And fly strong."

* * *

Fili and Dwalin rested inside the great cavern of the ancient forge by sitting back to back on the swept floor.

Svarlam burst through the barred wooden doors with no warning, shouting commands in his own orcish language at the top of his lungs.

They looked up as he strode across the room, then helped each other to stand and face him, looking like simple, scruffy smiths, clad only in trousers.

"Your time…it is up," Svarlam said, stopping in front of them. Four of his captains stood with him, sneering as if clearly expecting the dwarves to have failed.

"I demand magic sword."

Fili was unimpressed. "It's ready."

Five sets of Easterling eyes stared.

Svarlam held out a hand, his expression imperious. He jerked his fingers in a "hurry up" motion.

Fili shrugged and held up the sheathed sword.

"There's one last thing to do, to set the spell," he said.

"Not finished?" Svarlam roared.

Fili didn't flinch. "It's your sword—you have to do it." He held out the sheath, offering it hilt first. "Draw the sword from the sheath."

Svarlam laughed. "Ah. I see—I must draw the sword and blood it!" He grinned wickedly at Fili as if the joke was on him. Clearly, he intended that blood to be Fili's.

Dwalin, arms crossed, stood at Fili's back and grunted in disgust.

Fili just waited for Svarlam to draw the sword.

Svarlam curled his lip at the two dwarf captives as he jerked the blade free.

And then his expression of wide-eyed avarice said everything. The Tyrfing Blade had to be the most glorious sword he'd ever seen. The shiny metal was polished to a mirror finish, and it shone as if it held a bright flame within.

Svarlam's laugh of triumph filled the room. He lifted the sword, executed a flourish, and seemed to revel in the look of the bmagic weapon in his hand.

In his excitement he turned as if to spar with the captain on his left, and after three feints, sank the blade right through the man's steel armor, straight into his heart.

"Hjalmar!" One of the others gasped. The three remaining captains looked at their Lord, eyes wide with disbelief.

The one Fili recognized as Arngrim stepped forward to ease his bleeding comrade to the floor. The wounded man jerked, gasped, and with a great pool of his blood staining the floor, went still.

Shocked, the other Easterlings, including Arngrim, stepped back.

"My Lord…your cousin…!" Arngrim said.

Svarlam's expression showed his confusion. He turned to Fili.

Fili just faced him, his expression still. "Nicely done. That sword is yours now. Its magic works for you."

Svarlam looked at the sword in his hand, then at his dead cousin, then back at Fili.

"Not what you expected?" Fili asked.

Svarlam's confusion remained.

Fili narrowed his eyes. "You harmed my family and then demanded I make you a weapon of renown. So I have. I give you your sword," Fili said. Then his expression darkened, his Durin glower turning his face stone hard and unyielding. He took a step forward, angling left, then right before staring the Lord in the eye.

"But know this: I called upon the might of Erebor to magic that blade…what you have is not your desire but a Tyrfing Blade, and you have drawn the curse. From this moment on, it will bring nothing but calamity to you, your house, and every Easterling in Middle Earth. Every time that sword is drawn, it must kill one of your own. It cannot harm a dwarf or a true ally of a dwarf. It will cause nothing but havoc and death to your people whenever it is used."

The room was silent.

Fili looked at each one of the Easterlings. "My advice to you: that sword is best kept sheathed and forgotten. Never say I didn't warn you."

Svarlam looked at the body of Hjalmar, glassy eyed and still. "He was a distant cousin," he admitted. Then he looked up, glaring at Erebor's King. His brain was adding up the facts and after a moment, he let loose with a terrible roar, raising the sword and charging.

But Fili and Dwalin easily sidestepped the furious Easterling, who somehow couldn't quite bring the sword to bear. In his wrath, he turned on Dwalin and taking the hilt in both hands, stabbed down at him.

But the stroke missed the old dwarf by inches, embedding itself in the stone workbench.

Svarlam stared at his hands on the hilt. He tugged twice. The blade was held fast. Dwalin stepped away, and Arngrim, eyes narrowed, came forward, his own heavy sword drawn.

"What have you brought upon us?" Arngrim demanded, glaring at Svarlam.

Dwalin gripped Fili's arm, edging them away, angling to get clear of Arngrim.

Svarlam only tugged on the sword hilt, stunned and disbelieving.

Arngrim raised his sword and in two strokes, Svarlam was beheaded, his body falling free of the workbench as blood fountained around him, then stopped.

Dwalin pulled Fili past the stunned guards.

Arngrim grunted his approval of Svarlam's end…and then they saw his eyes go unerringly to the golden hilt of the Tyrfing Sword sticking out from the stone, and as everyone watched, Arngrim threw his own sword to the ground with a clatter and reached out to grip the Tyrfing Blade. Hand strong around the hilt, he drew the blade from the stone and the blade responded to him with a fiery shimmer.

"Magic…" he murmured, eyes wide with avarice.

He turned toward the other Easterlings in the room, holding up the blade with both hands, a smile of triumph on his face.

Fili found himself shocked at the swiftness of the curse, but he was not feeling sorry for any of them. They had brought this on themselves. This was Erebor's justice, at their own request.

Dwalin had an arm around him now, dragging him to the door.

"Run, lad. We're free of them," he murmured. "And let's hope that thing keeps them too distracted to follow…"

* * *

Fili and Dwalin emerged from the abandoned old mine onto a barren granite hillside that sloped downward. They charged headlong for the distant treeline, knowing they couldn't stop in the open.

But it was a difficult run without boots or cover. And they were both battered, hungry, and more critically, thirsty. And neither had really slept for days, time spent unconscious not counting in Fili's case.

Easterlings erupted out of the mine too closely on their tails for comfort. And as they sprinted west, a group of seven more popped out of side exit.

"That way!" Dwalin shouted, nudging Fili to the right as they ran downhill. Below, there was a narrow log spanning a crevice with a churning chute of water below. They would reach it first, but only just. They aimed for it, ducking badly aimed arrows shot in their wake.

"We can push it left," Fili called to Dwalin as they ran. When they reached it, they pounded across, lucky to have a natural low center of gravity for that kind of stunt. Once across, they skidded and turned together to bend for the anchored end, and pushing with their great dwarvish strength, dislodged the makeshift footbridge and sent the log tumbling into the raging white water below.

Across the crevice, the pursuing Easterlings stopped at the edge, roaring their rage and shooting arrows at will. Fili earned a bloody streak across his right bicep as an arrow streaked by.

At the back of the group, Arngrim raised the Tyrfing Blade and shrieked a battle cry…just before he slashed three of the archers to the ground. As they watched, he plunged the blade through the heart of a fourth before two others sent arrows into Arngrim's gut at close range. Arngrim fell, and the second archer, taller than the others, dropped his bow. Shocked, the man knelt beside the fallen captain, lifted the mesmerizing sword, and held it up in awe.

And so it would go.

Fili and Dwalin turned then, putting distance between them and the melee that the Tyrfing Blade released. But all too soon another band of Easterlings appeared from uphill, apparently having crossed the water somewhere higher up.

They were twenty or more strong and these fellows covered more ground at a faster pace than the two tired dwarves.

Dwalin put himself behind Fili, shielding his kin and King from arrows, and they put their heads down and ran as best they could.

Vaguely, Fili became aware of ravens overhead, following their progress. But there was no time to stop, no time to call one down, soothe it, and send a message.

"Enemy behind us!" he shouted to them. "Slow them down!"

The Erebor ravens needed no more direction. Their frustration with the King not stopping to talk to them easily turned to war-flock ire against the enemies who kept him from them.

They wheeled over Fili's location, calling to each other. _Mob, mob, mob! _They arrowed over the Easterlings, dive bombing, drawing fire and causing the men to slow in order to aim and shoot.

The quick-moving ravens had no trouble evading the arrows, and they taunted the men, swooping and confusing them.

Fili and Dwalin made it to the treeline, a sparse pinewood with scrubby soil beneath. This was more difficult on their bare feet, but they didn't slow. Together they put their heads down and labored uphill, their pursuit slowly gaining, despite the efforts of the ravens. The whole thing put Fili in mind of being pursued by orcs and wargs all those years ago…running through pines until coming up against a dead-end cliff.

He had no idea what they would find over the top of this hill, but he wasn't stopping now, and neither was Dwalin.

* * *

Skirfir's young eyes spotted the frantic cloud of circling ravens before anyone else.

"Kili!" he shouted, pointing east, just beyond a low hill.

"Ravens…" Kili breathed. "War-flock!" Kili shouted to Breodan, joining Skirfir and pointing in the direction of the birds. "The enemy is there!"

Breodan acted instantly. "Rohirrim!" he called, raising his sword in a signal to charge…and Kili saw the instant response. The Eored formed a running wedge, the horses increased their speed to a full gallop, and the riders positioned weapons, leaning low over their horses' necks.

Kili narrowed his eyes at the war-flock, managing to get his bow in his hands and hold an arrow at the ready. It was much harder to stay in place behind his rider now, but he hooked his knees the way Breodan had coached, and at least he didn't bounce off the back.

The Rohirrim topped the hill and spotted their prey immediately. Their war-calls expressed their eagerness to engage, their horses steady and unwavering in the charge.

* * *

Fili and Dwalin saw the dust cloud on the other side of the hill when they were still twenty paces from the top.

"Look out!" Dwalin panted, latching onto Fili's arm and pulling him left.

"Horses?" Fili wondered. Dale? Could Dale have come this far?

He would expect long-legged Dale horses to top the hill and pause—get the lay of the land before starting down.

He didn't expect the breakneck swarm of horsemen that rose over the hill in a stampeding herd of war and ruin.

Fili's eyes went wide and he stopped where he was, Dwalin right behind him. They went to their knees, Dwalin at his back, as the leading edge of a great mounted force crashed over and around them in a great whoosh of hooves, gear, and weaponry. Fili felt the impact through the earth under his knees and actually saw the underside of a great buckskin, saddle girth and all, as it leapt their position.

In complete amazement and shock, he turned his head as the last horses passed, tracking their progress headlong into the band of wide-eyed Easterlings below.

His first instinct was to follow…to stay with the battle.

But Dwalin's rough grip on his arms held him back.

"No, Fili!" he said. "Not for us."

Fili spared him a glance.

"We'd just be underfoot, lad. Neither of us is in any shape…"

Fili blinked, heaving for breath and finally agreeing. He realized he couldn't take five more steps right now if he tried…but his heart soared, and as they watched from their vantage point on the hill, the powerful mass of horsemen rode fast and roughshod over the Easterlings, leaving no one standing.

With a surge of relief, Fili leaned against his cousin.

The horses wheeled in formation now, circling the enemy, spears pointing at their foes.

And from pillion positions, two youngsters shot arrows into the downed Easterlings, ensuring no survivors.

_No, not youngsters._

"Kili!" Fili said, sitting up and recognizing his brother. "Skirf…!"

Again, Dwalin held him back. "Aye," he said, a huge smile of relief on his old face. "And the lads have got some wicked fast horse-warriors with them."

"Rohan," Fili breathed. Mahal, he loved his brother.

Overhead a pair of ravens swooped past. "King! King!"

It was over, Fili realized. They would be safe. He raised an arm, calling one of the ravens down.

"Quick," he said. "Tell the horse-warriors: touch no Easterling weapon. We have released a Tyrfing Blade among them. Not safe for men." The raven leapt into flight, winging its way to the warriors below.

* * *

At the far northern end of the Long Lake, it was near sunset when Bard engaged one last group of fleeing Easterlings, beheading three and running his fine new sword through the guts of a fourth. He stood down, wiping his face with the back of his hand and surveying his men.

They had fought hard, all of them. His father would be proud, he thought. Above them, the stone countenance of the Mountain seemed stern and approving.

"Well done," he said to his men, just a little out of breath. No one answered. They didn't need to.

He looked at them, though. Assessing them. No one looked too injured to ride. They'd all taken down men five times more experienced and wicked than they were.

"Delling…" he called softly. "Bring the horses."

Delling nodded and took off. The horses were kept back in this kind of fight, but it was time to bring them forward and ride for home. There would be other soldiers to watch the woods overnight, other warriors to engage the outliers, other warriors to do the mop up.

Bard looked at his troops again, glad to see they passed waterskins and saw to each other's welfare.

But his eye stopped on the shorter boy among the fellows on his left. A youngster. He'd glimpsed that one facing down a pair of Easterlings, hacking through both with an admirable spin and slice.

Then he looked again. Not a boy. A dwarf.

Western Outpost survivor, his exhausted brain wondered? Tagging long for some vengeance with the Dale lads?

But then he looked again: something about the lad bothered him.

The dwarf stepped back, ducking behind the taller men.

And that's when Bard saw the familiar battle sheath, the distinctive sword hilts plainly visible.

He groaned aloud. "Your father is going to boil my bones in an ore smelter, lad."

The men blinked at him, then turned to follow their King's gaze, settling on the guilty expression of the grimy, sunny-haired dwarf lad beside them.

Not a Dale lad, they realized. An Erebor lad.

And then Delling was back, leading a string of horses into the clearing.

Bard pulled himself into his saddle, and as the others mounted up, he edged his horse to the place where the guilty lad stood, plainly out of his element amidst long-legged Dale horses.

"You ride with me," Bard said, holding hand down to the lad. "And I will send you to Thranduil's loneliest dungeon if you dare leave my sight."

The wide-eyed lad took the hand up, landing uncomfortably behind Dale's young King.

Bard kicked the horse into a run and the Dale men were off.

"What are you thinking?" he shouted to the lad. "And why do you have your father's swords?"

Fjalar gripped his belt tight, and Bard figured the lad had never been on the back of a tall Dale horse before.

"My Da!" Fjalar said. "The Easterlings have him…I have to get him back…!"

Bard swallowed. He stared ahead and moved with his horse, seeing the sun setting into clouds on the western horizon.

He couldn't answer. There were a thousand reprimands that he could deliver…

But he understood, actually. He'd lost his own father to the wretched Easterlings not two years back.

Who was he to tell this lad not to try?

* * *

The Rohirrim formed a wide circle around the freed prisoners, protecting them and watching for fresh pursuit. The sun was sinking in the west, and they needed to clear out.

Breodan rode swiftly uphill, slowing to give his passenger a hand down to the grassy hillside.

Kili ran the last few steps to his brother's side, falling to his knees in relief, arms reaching for both his brother and his cousin.

"Mahal, Fee…" He couldn't say anything else. All he could do was pull his brother close to his chest and hold tight, reassuring himself that Fili was alive.

"He's all right, lad," Dwalin murmured.

Kili pulled back and looked at both of them. Beat up, grimy, circles under their eyes… But they were both in better shape than he'd hoped.

"You need food and water," Kili said.

"Sleep," Fili mumbled. "Just sleep." He gripped Kili's hand. Tight.

Kili nodded. "And maybe a shirt or two."

Fili nodded. He didn't let loose of his brother, though.

Kili found it just a little bit unsettling. This was definitely the reverse of their usual situation, where Kili was the one in need of brotherly comfort. He certainly didn't like seeing Fili this way. Fili was the strong one, the rock of Erebor.

He looked wildly around for Skirfir, glad to see the lad was rounding up a couple of blankets and a waterskin.

"Tyrfing Blade?" he said to the two exhausted dwarves before him, offering his own waterskin and trying not to panic. He was aware of time passing, and he wanted them back with the rest of the Rohirrim, back to a better position as soon as they could ride. "Care to explain that to me?"

Dwalin shook his head and wiped water from his chin, looked at Fili.

"Had to. Stupid Easterling demanded a magic sword or he'd kill us." he glowered. "Tried to claim he had Gunz…Dwalin says no."

Next to them, Dwalin shook his head with some certaintly, confirming. "Your sons are in Erebor."

"That's what the ravens say, too." But Kili looked at his brother levelly. "So their leader demands a magic sword and you make him one?"

Fili gripped the hand Kili offered, getting slowly to his feet. Skirfir arrived with blankets, handing one to Kili and helping Dwalin with the other.

"Gave the bastard what he wanted, Kee." Fili's shoulders sagged. He was truly exhausted. "It it wipes his kind off the face of middle earth, so be it."

"Damn thing works," Dwalin muttered, grabbing the blanket and holding it. "You should see it…takes over their weakling minds, they start killing each other for us."

Kili pulled the blanket tight around his brother's shoulders and had the good sense to stay quiet. It was the only thing he about which he and Fili ever truly disagreed—the use of mithril magic. But this was not the time or place to renew old arguments.

He looked up at Breodan, the Rider of Rohan who'd become his friend. "Can you take us both?" he asked, unwilling to let his brother out of his sight.

To his relief, Breodan nodded.

"Little bit of a ride," he told Fili, leaning close to touch foreheads. "And we'll get you settled for some rest."

Fili's eyes were closed. He nodded. "Kili…?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

Kili gripped his brother's arm. Getting him free from his prison was one thing.

Getting the bastards out of Erebor would be another.

* * *

****Whew! Huge thanks** to YOU for reading, and even bigger thanks to those who've left reviews or sent a message. Hearing from you really helps, so please take a moment to drop a note if you can. Keeps me going! I have added a few new examples of fan art that I find inspiring to my Pinterest board...Just google "Summer Alden Pinterest Durin's Day" and it should come up. (Don't worry, Summer Alden is not my real name.) Mahal's blessings and much love, **Summer.****


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Kili, Prince of Erebor, had not seen his brother so exhausted since the battle for the gate, three years ago. They sat one in front of the other behind a tall rider of Rohan on a war horse of impressive size and strength.

"Just lean back, I'll hold you up," Kili murmured. It was a measure of how truly tired Fili was that he didn't argue or object, he only swayed. Without Kili's arms around him, he would have slumped right off the horse's back.

Kili worried. His brother was as resilient as they came.

_Mithril magic…there's always a price to pay for that._

He had also seen that the enemy had not been kind to Fili. Mahal, he knew what that was like. Goblins, orcs, Easterlings…all of them disregarded basic decency when it came to prisoners of war. But _Mahal made the dwarves strong, to endure…_at least in body.

Food, bath, and sleep, Kili told himself. And then let's see how he is.

The Eored jogged along with an honor guard of Erebor ravens flying reconnaissance, calling and alerting each other.

"What do they say?" Breodan asked over his shoulder.

"The way is clear," Kili said. "They see only the other Eoreds...upstream about two leagues, on the west bank."

It took less than an hour to cross the river and rejoin Eomer's forces. The Rohirrim had camped between the curve of the river and a sheer cliff, allowing some cover from ambush. The water ran deep here, and even horses would have to swim if they tried to cross.

It was the best protection they could get short of heading back into the woods.

Breodan ambled his great stallion through the mass of troops, taking the dwarves to the healer's tents, nestled in a stand of willows next to the water.

There wasn't much that healers of men could offer dwarves, but Kili appreciated the privacy.

"What do you want first," Kili asked his brother, trying to keep him awake. "Bath, food, or sleep?"

Fili's eyes were closed. "…you want," he mumbled.

"Whatever I want?" Kili asked. But he knew what Fili meant. It was what they did in times like this—one would just take care of the other.

Kili looked for Dwalin, who was in slightly better shape and walking on his own, Skirfir at his elbow.

"Can we clean them up in the river?" Kili asked the healer—a wheat-haired man named Gowan.

The healer agreed, showing them to a willow-covered bank with a bit of privacy. He brought towels and soap and a few spare under-tunics that were sized for men but might make sleeping shirts for dwarves.

"Tent there, with bedrolls," he told them, pointing to a small tent, already guarded by Vir and Vit. "I can check them over when you're done."

Kili thanked the man, then focused on getting his brother cleaned up. Dwalin took himself to the river's edge and plunged himself into the cool water, but Fili took a little coaxing. He was worried about An and Gunz, not himself.

"I'm worried, too," Kili murmured. "But I don't have any news…just that they're in the infirmary and being cared for. Gloin and Bofur are getting things in hand..."

Fili clearly wanted back on the horse and to ride hell-for-leather through the Easterlings, then straight home.

"You can't help them when you're like this, Fee," Kili said firmly. "Clean up and rest first. There's a healer here; you will let him look at you."

Kili knew what the reaction would be. Fili tried to shrug him off. "No!" he was shaking his head.

"Yes. Fee," he said, gripping his brother by the shoulders. "You will do it. For me."

He got a long, scathing look for that remark and he tried not to laugh. It was, he realized, the exact reverse of Fili's own words to him, not three months back.

"Don't need healers," Fili protested, though he was indeed too exhausted to protest very much.

When he finally waded into the water and sank in up to his chin, Kili took a cloth and soap and started on his brother's grimy face.

"You're just giving me a lesson in how to be a dad, here," Kili teased. "Did you know she's pregnant?" Kili asked, distracting his brother by bringing up Nÿr.

"Not surprised," Fili managed and Kili spotted a ghost of a smile. "Figured..."

"It was that obvious?" Kili got his brother to dunk and rinse off the soap.

Fili surfaced, his eyes closed in exhausted relief. "Inevi…ble," he mumbled.

"Inevitable?" Kili grinned at his brother's slurred speech. "I think we got the stench off you," he declared. "Let's get you a bit of food and some sleep."

Fili nodded, his tired expression miserable and confused. To Kili, it was heart-wrenching.

Dwalin, on the other hand, waded back to the bank on his own, toweled off and grabbed the first over-sized shirt he saw, and shrugged in on while marching himself to the tent.

But Fili fussed and needed Kili's arm to keep from staggering sideways. "Tan one," he said.

Kili had a grey shirt in his hand and arched an eyebrow. "I hardly think the color matters out here, Fee…"

"Tan!"

Kili made the trade. "Mahal's _ass_, Fee." He popped the tan one over his brother's head. It took both him and Skirfir to get him to the tent.

Then the King and his cousin allowed Gowan the healer to tend their cuts, their bruises, and, Kili noted with a frown, burns.

They'd been working shirtless at a forge.

_Tyrfing blade._ What had they done? Kili pushed wet hair off his forehead and worried.

That Dwalin had been part and parcel to the forging of such a thing gave Kili some measure of relief: surely Dwalin and Fili together could not have done something unforgivable.

_Tomorrow,_ he told himself. _The thing is loose already. I can get the whole story out of them tomorrow. _Right now his brother needed rest; Dwalin, too.

Kili and Skirfir stepped just outside the tent and conferred with the other dwarves of their group. They took stock of available gear and didn't have much to spare between them—as they'd seriously reduced their packs in favor of traveling fast. But they found enough clothing and weapons to re-fit the freed captives, including two mis-matched axes to loan Dwalin. Kili would share his long knives with his brother, and Skirfir offered to loan back the sword Fili had given him earlier in the summer.

"I've plenty of arrows," Skirfir murmured. "And I can't wield sword and bow at the same time."  
Kili thanked him.

The only lack was boots—but Gowan's assistant declared a cure for that and called in two leathermen…as Eoreds always traveled with skilled leather workers among the ranks. Measurements were taken, examples were provided by showing them Kili's and Skirfir's boots, and the leathermen nodded.

"Two pairs of boots by breakfast," they declared. "We would be honored to do this." They bowed, hands on hearts.

Then Fili and Dwalin had their first real meal in days—hearty stew, nicely meaty.

"You had a good knock on the skull," Gowan said to Fili as they ate. "I want you to drink this. I gave it to your cousin Gimli after battle once. Put him right in no time."

"What is it?" Kili asked.

"Mountain Arnica...mostly. Men aren't so hard-headed as dwarves," he smiled. "Knock on the head means the brain swells…all kinds of problems when that happens. Gimli took a blow to that same spot behind the ear in the last battle…this had him right in no time."

Fili looked suspiciously at the cup Gowan handed him and Kili drew breath, ready to argue him into drinking it.

But Fili tossed it back, drank deeply, and held the empty cup for the healer to take.

Kili was more than glad to tuck him into bed after that. Fili curled up on his side and was out before Kili could add a second blanket.

And impending battle or not, Kili intended to let them sleep as long as they could.

"I'll be back. Just going to chat with ravens," he told Skirfir, patting the lad on the arm. Skirf nodded, and Kili left the tent well-guarded by the Hill brothers.

He walked to the edge of the camp and spent the last hour of daylight conferring with Erebor's ravens. They reported Dale's victory at the north end of the lake and the mass of Easterlings fleeing south along the eastern shore. Good. Right where they wanted them.

The Easterlings would not be expecting Eomer and the Rohirrim, that was for sure.

The ravens told him much, but they still reported an unusual silence around Erebor's front gate. No one on Ravenhill…only Mountain Lassie at the northern lookout, and word that the cadets and apprentices were starting a hunt-and-purge inside Erebor, hoping to rout every traitor bearing the white mark of Lord Svarlam's sigil.

Kili sent ravens back to Beka, bearing the news he knew she needed most: _your father and the King are safe, we are with Rohan at the south of the lake. We ride north before sunrise._

And then he asked for the news his brother needed…though he did it with a heavy heart. Like Fili, he feared to know…but he had to ask. _The King requires news of the Queen and Prince Gunnar.  
_  
He knew the raven returning to Erebor would stop and roost overnight, but at least Beka would get the messages in the morning.

He also had one message from Nÿr…_Sheltering with Grimbeorn, ponies resting; be safe, love. _

The young raven who delivered this nibbled Kili's collar. He took this as a sign of Nÿr's worry, her need to touch him and reassure herself that he was whole. He sighed heavily and scratched the bird's head. He hadn't meant for their trip to turn out this way. It should have been a quick, simple jaunt.

As the sun set, Kili looked west to the distant line of the Misty Mountains. Somewhere between him and that snow-capped range was his Lady Wife, his beautiful sweetheart, the healer lass Nÿr.

"Tell her I'm well," he murmured to the young raven on his arm as it continued to run its beak along the seam of his jacket. "Tell her I love her and will see her soon…we rout the Easterlings at sunrise. Stay safe, love."

The raven stopped fretting at his seams and looked at him. "Hen-hen?"

"Yes. Take my message to Hen-hen."

The bird ducked its head as if nodding, then gave Kili a cheeky, bright-eyed look before flapping away.

Kili watched it fly west until it was out of sight in the deepening twilight, then he made his way to Eomer's campfire. He sat when asked, delivering the news about Bard's success in the north and the path of the Easterlings coming south.

"Why are they so eager to retreat along the eastern shore?" Eomer asked.

Kili shrugged. He picked up a stick and poked at the campfire. "Less populated, easier to move at speed… It's arid land along the ridge and swampy near the shore—not good shipping or farming, so no hindrance from Esgaroth or Dale. Mainly," he added, "That route avoids any interference from the Woodland Realm. Thranduil would take quick action against interlopers on the western shore. He cares not about the east."

Eomer frowned. "The Easterlings are willing to bother Erebor but not Thranduil?"

"No—rather they are not willing to bother us at the same time. Put any two of us together and they know they'd lose. This was meant to be a stealth attack against one of us alone," Kili said, swiping the air with his stick. "Strike Erebor and gain a foothold before our allies could muster."

"Didn't work," Eomer said.

"Worked better than it should have," Kili looked at his boots. "Caught us off guard." He ground his teeth. All the years when he'd never left Erebor, nothing quite like this had ever happened. The minute he left…tragedy. He broke his stick apart and fed the pieces to the fire. They were all too enamored of peace…and too inexperienced with it.

"In a way," he said. "It's easier to manage Erebor in a siege. Peacetime…" he shook his head. "Everyone wants to come and go as they wish, Fili and me included."

Eomer nodded. "Freedom is a two way street. Our people can do what they want…and so can our enemies."

Kili agreed. "Erebor has not seen peace in our lifetimes…and here we are in a completely new age."

Eomer's smile was kind and sympathetic. "We are all finding the transition welcome and difficult." He looked south, toward the direction of Rohan. Eomer was here, Kili realized, while the much-needed aid from Erebor in the form of gold was headed south to his people without him.

Kili rose, suddenly embarrassed that he'd waylaid Rohan's King. "My deepest thanks to you, my Lord, for your help and my brother's freedom." He bowed, hand on heart. "I will beseech Mahal to let us end this tomorrow and send you home."

Eomer didn't rise-it wasn't expected, after all. But he nodded gravely and placed his hand over his heart in return. "Rest assured, my friend-we will enjoy this fight," he said.

* * *

Lady Nÿr, princess of Erebor, newly wed to the King's brother, looked east as the sun set. She stood outside the long, wooden house of Grimbeorn, and she too had been ravenspeaking. There always seemed to be three or four Erebor ravens in attendance upon her, and she smiled at them.

They tended to harass Kili endlessly, begging for extra treats and favor like fledglings out of the nest who continued to badger a parent, but she noticed they behaved differently for her. Her ravens seemed obsessed with standing watch, like so many parents guarding their eggs from atop the neighboring tree.

She had just listened to a raven who'd flown in from Erebor and then bade it roost. It was just there—three branches below the tip of a cedar. She needed time to think on her answer to the request it had brought. She would sleep on it, actually, and call the raven back to her at sunrise.

In the meantime, her brows furrowed as she considered the news.

"You look like a lass with a problem."

Nÿr turned to see Yanu bowing his head to her: Yanu, the slender elf with the ink-marked face. In Nÿr's limited experience with elves, there seemed to be two kinds: the domineering, warrior elf…and the mild-mannered shy elf.

Yanu was one of the shy elves, deferring to everyone. Yet she recognized a quiet wisdom in him. She liked him, she decided, despite his lowly status.

"It was a message from Erebor…" She looked north and east, to the place where she knew the mountain lay. "The Queen was injured in the attack. They send a message asking me to return and heal her…she has not awakened."

Yanu's expression was somber. "Can you? Heal her, I mean."

Nÿr drew a slow breath. "I don't know. There are…means available to those with the blood of Durin. Since I am both a healer and a descendant, they think I can do this."

Yanu sat, drawing his knees to his chest. He actually had to look up at her from this position. "The line of Durin is famously tied to mithril magic. Is this the means of which you speak?"

Nÿr nodded. "I have used it…once. It is not a thing anyone understands very well."

"Did it work?"

"In that instance, yes." She didn't elaborate—that it had been done for a dying patient, one with the blood of Durin himself, and it had taken the combined efforts of three of them to do it.

"Why do you worry?" Yanu asked. "You do not wish to defy your husband and return to the mountain?" He turned to look at her.

"I fear the effect on my unborn child."

Yanu looked thoughtful. He nodded.

She smiled then. "And I've lived all my life but the last three months as an unwed lass who did not ask anyone's permission," she told him. "Kili does not expect to control my decisions and neither would I allow it."

Yanu furrowed his brow. "Yet he bade you stay away."

Nÿr tilted her head. "He bade me to make smart decisions and stay away from the battlefield," she corrected. "Just as I asked him to be careful." She paused. "But I do know his heart on the matter of mithril magic," she added.

Yanu looked expectant.

"He doesn't like it. It's unpredicable...dangerous."

Yanu nodded.

Nÿr sighed, covered her face with her hands, and shook her head. "But this is about the _Queen_, Yanu. Who am I to make a life and death decision about the _Queen_? She is also my sister-in-law…and my friend. She is Fili's beloved." She shook her head again. "And she is a mother."

Yanu said nothing for a long while. "What did you tell the ravens?" he asked, finally.

"Nothing." Nÿr looked up at the darkening sky. "I told them to rest…that I would answer in the morning."

She sat then, next to the tall elf. Yanu held out a hand, offering small comfort. She took it. A moment later, at his silent invitation, she leaned against him and he put a gentle arm around her.

Nÿr understood, then, why the supposed mismatch of elves and dwarves was not really so odd. There was a very natural friendship to be had between them, if people opened their minds to it.

He was no replacement for Kili…and her newly-wed heart pined for her beloved. She had trained to be a healer, had worked in the field to aid the wounded. She thrived in the midst of the action, not sidelined in the middle of nowhere.

But she knew why she could not be where her beloved was, and she even agreed. The young child inside was suddenly more important to her than anything else but Kili himself.

Beside her, Yanu was silent.

"Would you come with me if I decided to go?" she asked him.

Yanu looked sad and thoughtful at the same time. "Would I accompany you to keep you safe? Yes." He looked at her. "Would I approve of you endangering your child?" There. A slight shake of his head. "Understand that children are so very rare among elves. You are doing something that we have not been able to do for centuries."

"Having a child?"

He nodded.

Nÿr squeezed his hand. "You are right to remind me. It is not so common among dwarves, either. Children of Durin, even less so." She looked at the stars, just starting to populate the sky. Under the eaves of the forest, deer grazed, their tails bobbing as they alternated eating with being lookouts.

"Kirin," she said suddenly.

Yanu blinked.

She placed a hand on her stomach and smiled. "His name. I think it helps to know who he is…don't you?"

Yanu smiled. "Kirin…like the mythical deer? Or like his father and his Uncle Thorin?"

"All of them," Nÿr grinned. "Kirin, son of Kili, sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield." Across the meadow, a young stag in his prime lifted his head and stared. Then he flicked his ears and made his way in an almost playful manner toward the rest of his herd. He was clearly watching over them, proud of his family and friends.

Yanu placed his hand on his heart. "If that's an omen," he said, laughing gently. "I think it's a very good one. I am at your service, young prince Kirin." Yanu closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Nÿr smiled. She felt buoyed by Yanu's acceptance, and while she still hadn't decided what to do tomorrow morning, it was good to know that she and little Kirin would not be alone.

* * *

Kili returned to the healer's tent to find his brother out of bed and fussing.

Skirfir and Dwalin were both blocking Fili's way out of the tent and Fili was nearly snarling at them.

Kili considered an argument, then looked again. His brother wasn't mad…his eyes were full of unshed tears…his expression desperate rather than angry.

Kili stepped in front of Dwalin, stopped very close to his brother, and pulled him into a hug. "Fee…" His voice broke when he said it.

He felt Fili's shoulders fall. The lad was flat out exhausted, to be sure.

"Come on," Kili coaxed him. "I need to rest, too. Will you settle if I stay here?"

Fili let his breath out, turning his head away. It wasn't unexpected, this restlessness. Kili knew the feeling well. It was as if the body, so used to being on alert for the crisis, couldn't stand down. A lad might fall asleep, then be awake again at the slightest noise, ready to defend.

So Kili would help. He stepped inside the tent, pulling his brother with him and steering him back to the sleeping pallet. Fili said nothing. He let himself be re-tucked into bed, and then Kili stripped off his own heavy gear, laying his sword near to hand and settling in next to Fili. It was a dwarfy thing, brotherly and comforting.

"Do you want me to tell you what the ravens said?" Kili murmured, putting a companionable arm around his brother.

Fili grunted, but he also lifted his hand to rest on Kili's arm.

Kili closed his eyes and smiled. Some things never changed. They'd been doing this since he was younger than Gunz and Fili younger than Fjalar...though usually the roles were reversed. Kili was generally the exhausted one.

"Just rest, Fee," he said, his voice low. "I'll stay right here..."

Fili shifted. He might have nodded.

"Bard's got them on the run," he began, launching into a recap of the raven's view of the day's events. It didn't take long for Fili's breathing to even out, lulled by Kili's voice. Across the tent, Dwalin snored.

"You all right, now?" Skirfir asked quietly from the door.

"We're all right," Kili murmured in reply, his eyes staying closed, nearly asleep himself. "Thanks, lad. Get some rest…"

Tomorrow would be a busy day, after all. They had several hundred Easterlings to manage, and Mahal willing, they'd be back at the Gates of Erebor before sundown.

_Mahal willing._

* * *

****Author's Notes:**

As always, leave a note if so inclined! The feedback helps me make time to keep working on this and I appreciate the kind notes and the comments. It all helps me keep this story going. I don't have trouble conceptualizing the story per se (as a kind anon wondered) but I do have trouble making quality time for drafting and revising. Yikes. Your encouragement helps me prioritize...I genuinely appreciate every note, even if I don't reply personally. You guys rock!

That said, I'm about to spend a week away at a really intense tech conference-lots of schmoozing, doing some presentations, clients and vendors to keep happy...not sure I'll be able to write even in the airport...and internet will be spotty (yes, even at a tech con, LOL) so realistically, the next update is around the July 4th weekend.

Names: Yes, Kirin is _also_ the name of a beer! (wink!) In my headcannon, Kirin grows up to be quite an alemaster on the side, entertaining his aging father and uncle with tastings of his latest brews. Plops a couple tankards on the table. "Try this one, Da. It's an amber ale...tell me what you think." Kili and Fili will be eager taste-testers. ;D

FanArt: check out the fabulous **Cassandrala**'s fan art based on these Durin's Day stories! I'm speechless and humbled. You go, Cassandrala! Also check out her Fili/Kili/Thorin story here on fanfic, **Gems and Poison**. She well deserves a few more likes and favorites! Also see her on Deviantart as Cassandrasade. Huge thanks, Cassandrala!

As always, a huge shout out to **BlueRiverSteel** for ongoing support and beta-ing. Her story **Erebor Reclaimed, Book Two, Inikhde** is ramping up as well! I'm eagerly awaiting the next chapter... Go Blue!

Mahal's blessings, everyone.


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